


Curses Foiled Again

by RileyC



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types, World's Finest - Fandom
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Case Fic, Crime Scenes, Fairy Tale Curses, Halloween, M/M, Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-08-28 07:31:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8436838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyC/pseuds/RileyC
Summary: "Magic finds a way." - John ConstantineKlarion the Witchboy and Morgaine got up to some malicious mischief a couple of days ago. It was believed that Constantine straightened things out. This story begins as evidence starts to appear that indicates that belief may have been incorrect...





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Magic finds a way."_ \- John Constantine
> 
> Klarion the Witchboy and Morgaine got up to some malicious mischief a couple of days ago. It was believed that Constantine straightened things out. This story begins as evidence starts to appear that indicates that belief may have been incorrect...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by this prompt on Tumblr, courtesy of pxstergirl:  
> SOULMATE AU WHERE WHEN YOU WRITE SOMETHING ON YOUR SKIN WITH PEN/MARKER/WHATEVER THE HELL YOU WANT, IT WILL SHOW UP ON YOUR SOUL MATES SKIN AS WELL.  
> ====  
> The Atacama Desert (Spanish: Desierto de Atacama) is a plateau in South America, covering a 1,000-kilometre (600 mi) strip of land on the Pacific coast, west of the Andes mountains. It is the driest non-polar desert in the world.
> 
> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

“Goddammit-- _oww_!”

Caught in the midst of launching a roundhouse kick, Harley Quinn was brought up short. She stumbled, caught herself, and stared at him, mouth agape. “Did you just say ‘oww?’” 

Batman glowered back her, desperate to rip off his gauntlet and find out what was had just caused the pain that ripped through his hand. What the hell was going on? There was no way to be covert about it as he rubbed his left palm through the gauntlet. The combination of itch and burn and electric jolts was driving him to distraction, though.

As if that wasn’t enough, Harley had a concerned look on her face as she popped her gum and advanced on him. “You okay, Batsy?”

He grunted, fired off a grappling hook. As he swung off into the night, Harley called after him, “I coulda kissed it and made it better!”

He landed on another roof and stripped off the gauntlet just as one more sizzling rip sliced across his palm. That he was disconcerted to find there were no tears or burn marks in the material was an understatement. Even so, Bruce braced himself for ripped and bloody flesh, singe marks at least, when he turned his hand to catch the glow of a streetlight. 

There was nothing. At least, no wounds of any kind. There _were_ words emblazoned across his palm, the message underscored with a thick, black slash:

**MATCHES MALONE  
** **8 P.M.  
** **TOMORROW  
** **STACKED DECK  
** **GOTHAM**

What the hell? 

He scrubbed at the mark, tried to rub it off. If it was ink, it didn’t so much as smear. He tugged off the other gauntlet and gingerly touched his fingertips to the mark, traced each letter. The pain had receded; there was no redness, no tenderness, no swelling, and even the itching had stopped. 

If he didn’t know better… Bruce frowned in concentration, ran his fingers over the mark again. If he didn’t know better, he would say someone had hastily scrawled a message on his hand. 

But that was impossible. He could literally count on one hand the number of people who knew he was Matches Malone, and none of them possessed the ability to pull off something like this. 

Who could? Possibilities tumbled through his mind, none of them substantial enough to take form yet. There wasn’t enough evidence, not yet. And he wasn’t going to find any answers here. 

On that thought, he donned his gauntlets once more, fired off another grapple, and swung back to where he’d left the Batmobile. There was an answer; there was always an answer. The trick was to find the right question. 

~*~

“Could it be magic?” Alfred Pennyworth straightened up from peering at one last uninformative slide, stretching to ease the kink in his back. “When you have eliminated the impossible…” He trailed off with a modest shrug.

Magic should not have been on the table. There was a time when Alfred would have dismissed any such possibility without a second thought. Times changed, however, and he had long since lost the luxury of disbelief. Believing six impossible things before breakfast was positively routine these days.

This was one for the books, however, he thought as he watched Bruce bend his head to the microscope once more. 

They had run every test either of them could think of, to no result. Well, except that Bruce now had a sore hand after having his palm scraped and stuck with needles. 

“Some residual effect from Morgaine’s spell?” Bruce wondered as he straightened up and went over to the computer.

“Or,” Alfred checked to see if the coffee pot was still hot, “a warning from an occult associate. Jason Blood, perhaps? Or Mr. Constantine?”

Bruce turned that over, scratching the stubble on his chin. “Constantine--maybe. It’s not really Jason’s style. And a warning about what?” He leaned forward, an intent look on his face as he stared at a photograph of the message on the monitor. “Neither of them knows about Matches, so…” He pinched his bottom lip as he tried to puzzle it out, and shook his head in frustration. “What is Matches supposed to do tomorrow night at eight?”

“Perhaps…” Alfred worked it out a bit further. “Perhaps Matches Malone is in jeopardy? Could there be a hit out on him?” He poured two cups of coffee, added sugar and cream to his.

“I’m sure there are several.” Bruce scratched his chin again, gaze fixed on the mystifying message as if he could pull its answers from it by sheer will alone. Pity one couldn’t dangle a handful of words off the side of a building. Coercion, alas, was not always the solution.

After another long moment, Bruce swiveled to face Alfred and picked up his coffee cup. “So what about Morgaine? You had more of a front row seat than I did.”

“A seat I would have gladly relinquished,” Alfred muttered.

Bruce gave him a look both curious and challenging.

Alfred raised an eyebrow in reply. The incident--and could there be a more inadequate label?--had been thoroughly reviewed already. There was little likelihood of stumbling upon an elusive detail that would provide a eureka moment now. Still, he knew full well Bruce wouldn’t leave it alone until every item, no matter how minute, had been examined down to its atoms.

All the more so in this instance, Alfred knew, because while they had been the star attractions, as it were, Bruce and Mr. Kent had been rendered insensible, and neither retained a memory of what occurred. Alfred had no idea if Clark Kent was troubled by this gap in his knowledge and unable to rest until he had worked everything out to his satisfaction. He was in no state of uncertainty where Bruce was concerned, however. Granted, the incident was barely two days past, so that it was bound to be a fixed point in anyone's experience. Bruce, however, would probe and prod at it for the next twenty years if necessary.

Known facts were that Klarion, in want of an ally, had reached across time and space to bring the sorceress Morgaine le Fey to present day Gotham. Once arrived, her first order of business had been to weave a malevolent spell meant to seek out the Batman and eliminate him as an opponent.

All of that was learned afterward, when Jason Blood and John Constantine had intervened. At the time, all Alfred knew was that Bruce and Mr. Kent were under attack and that he was powerless to do anything to help them.

He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose as he summoned up that night. He strove for some sense of detachment, but accepted that would be difficult to achieve.

He began. “It was just striking midnight--”

“The witching hour,” Bruce murmured, both hands curved around his coffee mug.

“Indeed.” Alfred slipped his glasses back on. “It had been raining all day but had turned to a cold drizzle by then. Fog shrouded the grounds.” That brought to mind the smoke, thick and black, with particulates that swirled within it like crushed diamond. Malign and filled with eldritch power, it had oozed through every crack and crevice in the house in search of its prey--in search of Bruce.

Alfred couldn’t quite suppress a shudder at the memory and looked up to surprise a sympathetic look in Bruce’s eyes.

“Alfred…” Bruce sighed, shook his head, impatient with himself and this catechism he insisted on. “I know it must have been unpleasant--”

“That, Master Bruce,” Alfred said with feeling, “is an understatement without compare. No, I’m quite all right.” He waved away Bruce’s concern, gathered his thoughts. “What’s done is best done quickly.”

Bruce gave him a sardonic look. “ _Macbeth_? Really?”

“Yes, well, something wicked did this way come.”

Bruce conceded that point with a tilt of his head. “All right. It was striking midnight, there was fog and cold drizzle,” he prompted. “What then?”

“And then the doorbell rang. It was Mr. Kent, there to consult with you on some matter related to Intergang. I told him you were expecting him.” He saw Bruce pull a face at that, as though scoffing at some secret meaning in the words. Whatever subtlety Bruce imagined, however, Alfred intended only a minimalist account of events.

“I left him to make his way to you, while I returned to the kitchen to make hot chocolate. My first clue that anything was amiss was a sudden sulfurous smell. At that,” he gave a wry grimace, “for a moment I only wondered that you were conducting some chemical experiment and had, for whatever reason, produced brimstone.

“Then I saw the smoke.”

Tendrils that puffed from the drain in the sink, or crept under the door, any means it could find to gain entry. Wisps of it had wreathed him, reeking of that brimstone smell as it choked him. As though it sensed he was not its target, it had left off, slithered away from him with an oily residue left behind as it sank to the floor and surged onward. Still gasping for breath, Alfred had stumbled after it and found renewed strength as he realized the diabolic smoke was headed for the Cave.

“You know the rest,” he said, absently massaging his throat. He could still feel the tendrils of smoke, like vines, squeezing his windpipe, suffocating as it filled his lungs.

Bruce scowled, though Alfred sensed it wasn’t meant for him. “I remember Clark and I were at the computer when he smelled the smoke.” He looked angry now; there was a hint of fear there, as well. “Do you know what he did?” A note of incredulity colored his tone. “The goddamn idiot tried to inhale it all, like he would whoosh out of there and expel the smoke in space or something.” His lips thinned, a muscle worked in his jaw. “He had this look on his face, Alfred, like he didn’t understand what was happening to him, and it… It disturbed him.”

Terrified him, more likely, Alfred suspected. But Bruce would never let anyone know, not even him, that Superman could be frightened--or that the Batman might share that alarm. “Mr. Kent is a remarkable individual, sir.”

“Mr. Kent,” Bruce grumbled, “is a self-sacrificing idiot. He had no idea what the smoke was made of. It could have been infused with kryptonite.”

“Yes.” Alfred nodded sagely. “No doubt his first thought should have been to save himself and leave you to your fate.”

Bruce shot him the kind of look that no doubt made the Joker and Riddler and all those chaps quake in terror. Alfred merely quirked an eyebrow in return.

After a moment, Bruce exhaled a grumpy breath and glanced away. “He started vomiting it out, the smoke. He looked ashen, he was collapsing--he was dying.” Bruce sounded very far away now, his gaze fixed on some distant point. “Even then, when the smoke came for me, he lunged after it, tried to push me out of the way…” He trailed off, absolutely silent as several seconds ticked by, no sound in the Cave but the hum of machinery and the soft _skreek_ of the bats. Then, “That’s all I remember, until waking up to Constantine saying something about fairy tales.” He gave Alfred a look of reproach that seemed to hold him responsible for John Constantine’s nonsense.

Alfred ignored that, remembering how he had found the pair of them, Clark Kent sprawled half on top of Bruce, and both of them insensible on the floor as the noxious smoke writhed around them. He had knelt, fingers trembling as he sought a pulse. Bruce’s had been weak; Mr. Kent’s almost non-existent.

“Did you know magic could be lethal to him?”

“He had mentioned that he was susceptible to it. He left out the part where it could kill him.” That Bruce took this oversight as a personal affront struck Alfred as most enlightening. This, however, was not the time to remark upon it.

“Yes, well, I’m sure if he had a user’s manual, he would give you a copy.”

Bruce favored him with another tetchy look, no doubt meant to be withering. All he said, however, was, “You contacted Watchtower then.”

Alfred nodded. “I explained what had happened as best I could, and the next thing I knew, Miss Prince and Mr. Constantine had arrived, and Jason Blood soon joined them. There’s nothing new there, Bruce.”

“There has to be,” Bruce insisted as he stared at his hand. It was wrapped in a bandage now, the gauze hiding the mystery for the time being but by no means muting it. He scratched his palm as though it itched him. “Magic _is_ the most likely explanation, and that’s the only time I’ve encountered it lately. There has to be a clue there.” He leaned forward, clearly determined to fixate on this point. “What did Constantine say about the spell?”

It was late, and Alfred was starting to feel a bit cranky himself. Like a dog with a succulent bone, though, Bruce was not going to let go of this. “I have not withheld information from you.”

“I never said you did, Alfred. Something may not have struck you as significant at the time, though.”

Arms folded over his chest, Alfred fixed him with an exasperated look. “I assure you, Master Bruce, everything struck me as significant.”

Bruce showed no sign of relenting, but wrack his brain as he might, Alfred could locate no further intelligence to share. John Constantine had said Bruce and Mr. Kent were unharmed and that the curse could be lifted-- 

“Oh, I say.” Alfred sat up straighter as he chased down the memory. Accuracy was everything on this point, he knew.

“What?” Bruce leaned closer. “Alfred, what?”

Alfred played it back to verify, and spoke with precision, “John Constantine said, and I quote,” he shifted his voice to a fair mimicry of Constantine’s, “’I recognize a variant on the Maleficent Curse.’”

“Maleficent?” Skepticism claimed Bruce’s expression. “As in Sleeping Beauty?”

Alfred shrugged. “I only repeat what he said. I would suggest the key word is ‘variant.’”

Bruce nodded, scraped his knuckles back and forth across his chin. “Is a curse different from a spell, or is just semantics?”

“I’m sure I’ve no idea. The gentleman was inclined to be cryptic when I pressed him on that point.”

“He’s like that,” Bruce grumbled. He sat back in his chair, still in pursuit of connections. “All right, it was a curse. Constantine reversed it?”

“He did. He explained that while his counter spell would restore the two of you, no worse for wear, it was not the preferred method of breaking this curse.”

“And what did he mean by that?”

“He did not elaborate. Well, he did remark that, under the circumstances, the traditional means of breaking the curse would be difficult to implement.” 

“I don’t suppose he elaborated on that?”

Alfred spread his hands, shook his head. “I could only think it had something to do with how both you and Mr. Kent were incapacitated and unable to take part in some arcane ritual.” Although what action either of them could have taken to free the other from some fairy tale curse was quite beyond him. All that occurred to him was the time worn cliche of a true love’s ki--

Alfred stared at Bruce as the nebulous idea took on form, like a puzzle piece that finally snapped into place. Could that be what John Constantine meant? Try as he might, he could find no other interpretation. And it did shed light on why Mr. Constantine had been almost amused, once the worst of the drama was in hand. What bearing could it possibly have on this current dilemma, though? he wondered as he schooled his features to betray none of what he was thinking.

Bruce had arrived in the general vicinity himself, it appeared. “That doesn’t explain this.” He held up his hand, studied Alfred. “It wouldn’t have slipped your mind if Constantine did say something about residual side effects in the form of magic writing?”

Alfred replied with an offended huff. “Indeed it would not, sir.”

“Hhn.”

Impasse, then, and Alfred found he couldn’t mind that. The hour was late and they could do little beyond spin their wheels at the moment. “I would suggest sleeping on the matter, Master Bruce. Rest usually brings clarity.”

Bruce grunted another reply, fixated on his hand, as though he too possessed x-ray vision and could look beneath the gauze wrapping and tape. “Do I have anything on my schedule tomorrow night, Alfred?”

“I don’t believe so. What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking Matches Malone,” Bruce’s polished tones slid easily into Matches’ cruder, Gangsters 101, voice, “should keep his appointment at The Stacked Deck. Someone’s gonna be waiting for him.”

“Shall it be friend or foe, though?”

Bruce cocked his head, eyes narrowed as he pondered that. “Only one way to find out.”

As Alfred could not offer up a more viable solution, he only nodded, and said, “Don’t forget to wear your Kevlar.”

A hint of a smile tugged at Bruce’s mouth then. “Never do, Alfred.

“Not that a Kevlar vest will do much good if an assassin goes for a head shot.”

Bruce glowered at him. Alfred glared back.

“You could try for a positive spin, Alfred.”

“Give me cause to, and I shall.”

“Hhn.”

“As the young people say, back at you.”

There was some satisfaction in having the last word, however piffling. So long as there was no true finality. So long as that.

~*~

“You and your hand have a fallin’ out, Malone?”

Bruce didn’t jump as Scarface barked the question but he slid a sideways look at the puppet and Arnold Wesker that discouraged further conversation. He also sent himself a mental memo to stop scowling at his left hand.

“Did I ask for your input?” he said, Matches Malone’s voice rolling off his tongue with zero effort by now.

“No skin off my nose,” Scarface said, amicable enough. Too amicable? Bruce wondered as he remembered Alfred’s question about hits out on Matches. He hadn’t crossed paths with Scarface in a long time but that didn’t mean he could let his guard down.

He watched Wesker go into one of the men’s room stalls, still with Scarface, decided there were some things he did not need to know, and swung his gaze back to the mirror. Satisfied every slicked back hair was in place, he slipped on his dark glasses and exited the men’s room. 

He lingered at the top of the stairs while he scanned the room below. There wasn’t an unfamiliar face in the joint, and any interest directed at him as he sauntered down the stairs was indifferent and short-lived. He took up a position where he’d have the advantage of anyone who walked into the place, and settled down at the table to wait. It was just coming up on eight; he’d give it awhile.

A drink appeared at his elbow, Matches’ usual--scotch on the rocks. A cheap paper napkin was folded underneath because, sure, wouldn’t want to risk rings on the beat up old table. He tugged the napkin out, beaded moisture dripping down the glass, and rubbed the palm of his hand, checking one more time that the mark was really gone.

He had dozed off in front of the computer, awakened by a sensation he could only describe as feeling like a piece of sandpaper was being scraped across his skin. He had thought to record the process but didn’t expect that to yield anything useful. It had lasted just shy of two minutes, and when it was over the mark, the message, was gone, not so much as a smudge left behind. The skin had been completely healed as well, nothing left to show how he and Alfred had scraped away at it last night.

Restless and frustrated, Bruce had just balled up the napkin and tossed it on the table, when the explanation to everything walked into the bar.

That was his first thought anyway, as all heads--even Scarface--swiveled to watch the newcomer who had ducked inside. He was tall, broad shouldered, wearing khakis and a blue pullover that, along with the dorky glasses--or were they hipster these days?--practically screamed **I am a goober, please mug me**. After that quick once over, everyone else went back to minding their own business, and Bruce reconsidered that first thought. Because, really, this didn’t explain a damn thing.

What was Clark Kent doing in The Stacked Deck, looking for Matches Malone? More important: why, and how, had Bruce Wayne received advanced warning of that?

While Bruce assessed the situation and ran through a selection of scenarios as to how best to proceed, Clark caught the bartender’s attention and leaned in for a word. Bruce narrowed his eyes to make out what was being said, but lip reading was impossible at this angle. He needn’t have bothered. Two seconds later, Clark had turned to zero in on Bruce’s table, and with a nod of thanks to the bartender, he was on his way over.

“Matches Malone?” Clark stuck his hand out like this was an ice cream social. 

“Oh for crying out loud,” Bruce muttered.

Clark looked at him more closely. “Excuse me?”

Scenario one: he could reveal himself to Clark and risk blowing his cover as Matches. Or scenario two: he could move things somewhere more private. It didn’t take him even a second to decide.

“Look, pal,” he growled as he got to his feet, “I don’t know you from Adam. Outta the way.” He pushed past him, headed for the back. Of course Clark came after him, catching him up to just as Bruce pushed through a door and stepped out into the alley just as lightning cracked across the sky.

“Mr. Malone,” Clark caught him by the shoulder and Bruce took a split second to analyze that grip, how it was just firm enough to keep him there but not so much it could make anyone leap to the conclusion this was Superman in disguise. “I was told to contact you, that you could answer some questions for me.”

Bruce pushed him off, also noting the way Clark fell back naturally. “Who told you that? Who’s going around Gotham saying Matches Malone’s a squealer?” Aware he was standing right under a light that illuminated the door, Bruce moved off, seeking the shadows near a Dumpster.

“Look,” Clark came after him, nose wrinkling at the smells from the Dumpster, the trash blown into piles, and even less savory things, “it’s not like that, Mr. Malone. I was told if I wanted to know how the criminal element worked in Gotham, you’re the man I should talk to.”

“Yeah? Who told you that?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t reveal my sources.”

Which was all well and good and Bruce would ordinarily applaud this staunch adherence to the journalistic creed. These weren’t the usual circumstances, however, and the more he thought about it… “Is this about Intergang?” 

“Wha--” Clark’s eyes had grown wide behind the lenses, now they narrowed as illumination dawned. 

“One more word outta you, pal,” Bruce moved in closer, grabbed a fistful of blue sweater, “and you’re gonna be wearing cement galoshes in the Delaware Bay.”

Instead of appearing fearful for his life, Clark only quirked an eyebrow at him. “Seriously?”

Bruce tipped down the dark glasses to glower at him. “Meet me at the Manor,” he muttered under his breath.

“Got it.” Clark’s head was cocked, as though listening. “Company’s coming. Hit me.”

Bruce raised his eyebrows. “Not really eager to break my hand.”

Clark rolled his eyes. “Just swing at me, like make believe.”

How the he got into situations like this, Bruce truly did not know. He could hear the voices himself now, however, so-- “Why I oughta knock your block off!”

“Yeah? Just try it, you loudmouthed sonofa--”

A broken hand might have been worth it, to get the Boy Scout to finish that line. No time, though. Bruce swung out, as much force as possible in the blow, skimming it right past Clark’s jaw. Obliging, Clark staggered back, a hand clamped to his face as he slid down the wall.

“Need some help there, Malone?” Mugsy called over.

“I got it covered. Keep moving.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

He struck a triumphant pose over Clark, keeping an eye on Mugsy and his cohorts as they moseyed on down the alley, heads ducked down against the wind-driven drops of rain that had started to fall. Once out of sight, he repeated, “The Manor, as soon as you can get there,” just before he ducked back into the bar.

At least now Bruce knew what must have happened, and it had nothing to do with residual magic. Clark must have been exposed to some kind of Apokoliptin technology while he was investigating Intergang. Once they worked out what it was, they could reverse the effects. He wouldn't admit to relief at this development but he did allow a sense of satisfaction that this it was something practical, something he could address without a side trip to the Twilight Zone.

He stopped short of thinking it would be a piece of cake, however. Nothing was ever that simple, and the only sure thing was there were always complications.

~*~

“There’s just one flaw in that theory, Bruce,” Clark said. “I haven’t been exposed to anything from Apokolips. Not even a little bit. Oh, thank you,” this to Alfred as a plate of fish and chips was placed before him.

“Clark, you can’t be certain of that.”

Clark blinked, head tilted just a bit. “I can’t?”

“Not if the device subsequently wiped your memory of the event.”

Clark, Damian, and Alfred all raised dubious eyebrows in response to that statement.

Bruce scowled back. It was a perfectly sound theory that covered everything. More or less. “What’s your alternative?” he said as his own plate appeared.

Clark shrugged, seemingly sanguine about the whole thing. “Alfred’s right: it’s magic.”

Alfred wore a satisfied look as he joined them at the table. “It’s just mushy peas,” he told Damian as the latter pushed his fish and chips as far as possible away from the blob of green on his plate.

Satisfied there would be no cross contamination, Damian demanded, “Ketchup?”

Alfred shuddered; Bruce handed the condiment over. He pointed a chip as Clark. “So you’re fine with its being magic?”

Clark eyed the ketchup longingly. Instead of answering the question, he gave Bruce a long and considering look. “I know why you’re not. You can’t put magic under a microscope; it’s too ephemeral for you to work out what it makes it tick. Magic plays by a different set of rules and you don’t like that.”

“Magic doesn’t play by any rules,” Bruce grumbled. He stared back at Clark, questions tumbling through his mind. He couldn’t ask them. Either Clark knew him entirely too well, or he was utterly transparent. Neither answer was satisfactory.

“That isn’t actually true,” Alfred interjected, sprinkling salt and vinegar over his fish and chips. “The spells do follow a formula. Mr. Constantine indicated precise adherence to these formulas was of the utmost importance. Any deviation and one might pull a basilisk from one’s hat instead of a rabbit.”

“What’s a basilisk?” Damian asked as he splattered more ketchup on his plate. “Can I have one?”

“We’ll discuss it later, Master Damian.”

“Pfft.”

Bruce shook his head, looked back at Clark. “You’re positive you haven’t been zapped with anything, had your memories tampered with?”

“Bruce, how could I possibly know if something like that happened?”

Conceding that point with a grunt, Bruce passed him the salt and vinegar. Resigned to the inevitable, he said, “We’re going to have to find Constantine.”

“Surely not right this moment,” Alfred said.

Contrariness prodded him to say yes, right now, weather be damned. Crime didn’t take a night off and one night could make all the difference. The storm that had threatened earlier had followed through big time, however, and the wind lashed icy spatters of rain against the windows. The kitchen, on the other hand, was warm and disturbingly cozy. That had struck him immediately as, with all traces of Matches Malone removed, he had joined the others there. He hadn’t intended to linger. Even if Gotham was quiet tonight, there was still work to do, and the Cave had beckoned. So had the sight of Alfred, evidently in a nostalgic mood and whipping up fish and chips, while Damian attended to homework and shot looks at Clark that warned him not to offer to help. Like the proverbial moth to a flame, he had been drawn in, and now felt disinclined to get away.

He must be getting old.

“We’ll track him down in the morning,” he said. If Damian was puzzled by this decision, Alfred didn’t even try to conceal his satisfaction at this news.

He couldn’t quite decipher Clark’s reaction. Not that it mattered, of course; not that he cared in the least what Clark thought.

“You’ll stay the night then, Mr. Kent?”

Uncertainty flickered in Clark’s eyes for a moment as he looked from Alfred to Bruce and back. “I…suppose I can. If it wouldn’t be any trouble.”

“No trouble at all,” Alfred assured him. He gave Bruce a look that dared him to take issue with that.

Bruce replied with a shrug of insouciant indifference and allowed, “It could save some time in the morning.”

“Yes,” Alfred said, his tone dry as the desert of Atacama, “because his commute from Metropolis is a long and arduous one.” Briskly then, “I shall prepare your usual room then.”

“You don’t have to do that, Alfred. I can make a bed.”

“Nonsense, Mr. Kent. I live to serve,” Alfred said, in a manner so blithe it almost made Bruce choke on a bite of fish. “Are you all right, sir?”

“Just peachy.” Bruce dabbed his napkin at his mouth. He took the glass of water Clark handed him, all the while wondering how Clark came to have a usual room.

It was a welcome distraction when Damian piped up to ask, “Does Constantine have a basilisk?”

“I wouldn’t be at all surprised…”


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~

 

This visit to Gotham was not at all what Clark had expected. Visits to Gotham never were. So that pattern held.

If things had gone according to plan, he would be back at his apartment by now, eating leftover Chinese takeout as he wrote up the notes from his meeting with Matches Malone. This was better.

He was curious about Matches Malone. Beyond a remark that the information was on available on a need to know basis, and that Clark wasn’t on that list as yet, Bruce had rebuffed his questions. No surprise there. That Clark found this attitude to be only a minor annoyance was interesting, however. When had he grown so accustomed to Bruce’s ways? he mused as he watched him, dark head bent over a book.

_That_  pattern had changed, and for the better.

True, he was no further along in his investigation into Intergang, and he had to wonder what Matches Malone was supposed to have brought to the table. Something to pursue there, and he knew Bruce would want in on the probe--once the current mystery was solved.

Another pattern that held what that Bruce needed to decompress by burying himself in the nitty-gritty of a case until he understood it inside out. Constantine might have the magical ability but that didn’t mean Bruce couldn’t be as informed on the subject.

Clark watched him skim through first one volume of magical lore, then another, pen scratching notes on a legal pad. He dwelled on the way Bruce pushed the sleeves of his sweater up his forearms. He wanted to touch that sweater--black, V-necked, probably cashmere--and discover if it was soft as it looked. Before he could dwell too long on that, he focused his attention on trying to guess if Bruce was making any progress. Much safer territory, he reminded himself. And if he read Bruce’s body language correctly, satisfactory answers were proving elusive. Clark could sympathize. The only thing he had ever wanted to know about magic was why he was susceptible to it. Jor-El didn’t have an answer; magic was something his scientist’s mind had never considered.

He did wonder Bruce hadn’t applied himself to the matter. Gathering data on him, assessing his powers and how he used them, sometimes appeared to be one of Bruce’s favorite pursuits. Clark hadn’t known what to make of the appraisal in the early days and had tended to err on the side of suspicion. Did Bruce mean to store up the information with an eye to formulating a way to neutralize him one day? It was the sort of thing Bruce would do. Clark couldn’t even say the idea disturbed him now. While he could not conceive of any circumstances in which he could become a threat to the world, in the event such a thing occurred he found he didn’t mind the idea that Bruce would have a plan ready. He hoped it would never be necessary. He thought Bruce shared that desire, even if he would never admit it.

Trusting someone with your life was an intricate undertaking, at least in their situation.

“I wouldn’t have thought you’d have these many books on magic and folklore,” he said as he made a tidy stack of the ones he had been looking through. “Do you have a copy of _The Necronomicon_  tucked away somewhere?”

Without looking up, Bruce said, “Upper level, third shelf from the right.”

Midway to getting up to go have a look, Clark caught the minute twitch of Bruce’s lips, and subsided back onto the chair. “And people think you never make jokes.”

“I’m beginning to think this must be one.” Bruce put down his pen and sat back on the sofa, one hand going up to rub the back of his neck. He stared at the palm of the other, pulled a frustrated face. “What’s the point? Why does a message you scrawl on your hand show up on mine?”

Clark could only shrug. He had seen the photographs Bruce had taken and could confirm that yes, he had written that message in hurry. Beyond that…? “Are we sure it wasn’t some one-time fluke?”

Bruce looked across the table at him, thoughtful. After a moment, he picked up a pen and tossed it to him. “Let’s see.”

Clark caught the pen, clicked it, thought for a second and then wrote on his palm. He blurred over to the sofa to lean in close and watch as a **“?”**  formed in the center of Bruce’s hand. “Huh, look at that,” he said, a note of wonder in his voice. It wasn’t that he hadn’t believed Bruce’s account, but seeing it for himself did kick it up several notches in reality.

He traced a delicate finger over the question mark, unable to detect any change in texture. For all that it stood out boldly, the mark was no more substantial than a freckle.

“Does it hurt?” It was obvious Bruce was experiencing some degree of discomfort, and Clark felt guilty for that. “I’m sorry.” He traced the mark again as though his touch might take away the pain.

“Not your fault. There’s no burning this time.” Bruce frowned in concentration as if it was of the utmost important to get the details down exactly. “There’s still an electric shock feeling, but less like grabbing a live wire and more like a really prolonged static shock.”

“Maybe that means it’s diminishing. Another day or two and it might just go away.” He pressed the tips of his fingers down hard, trying to feel those tiny bursts of electricity. There was nothing, though, except for the way Bruce’s pulse jumped as Clark’s thumb swept over his wrist. Aware that he was indulging himself, he withdrew his touch, glad Bruce was so absorbed in the puzzle that he hadn’t noticed.

“Even if it does goes away on its own, I still need to know what caused it.” Bruce held his hand out for the pen. “We need to know if this goes both ways.” He frowned again, switched the pen to his left hand, but still hesitated.

“What is it?” Clark prompted.

Bruce let out a pensive breath, watching him. “If this is magic--”

“I think it has to be.”

“--it could injure you.”

Clark bit his lip, remembering his encounters with magic--remembering the last one here, down in the Cave. Usually the experience was just embarrassing; sometimes there was danger, most often to others. That was the first time he had believed it might really kill him. If this development was related to that… He stood up straight, shoulders squared. “It can’t be worse than what you’ve experienced, Bruce.”

“You can’t know that, Clark. The effect on you might be profoundly different.”

Clark gave gave him a level look. “There’s only one way to find out. You won’t hurt me, Bruce,” he added, putting as much confidence as he could in his smile.

Clearly not convinced but equally unable to leave any clue unexamined, Bruce clicked the pen a couple of times before he made up his mind. “Ready?”

“Ready.” He pushed up his glasses.

Bruce nodded, the nib of the pen poised over his right palm for another moment, then he sketched a light mark. “What’s happening?”

“Nothing so fa--Oh.” Clark held out his hand to show him as an **S**  appeared on his palm.

“And?”

He shook his head. “And…nothing. It sort of tickles, and there’s some warmth, but that’s all.” He scratched his hand, grimaced. “Might be a little itchy.”

“Tickles? My hand felt like it was dipped in acid, yours just tickles and itches?”

“You’re the one who was worried it was going to hurt me a minute ago.”

Bruce pulled a grumpy face, bereft of any other comeback for that. He did trace the pen over the symbol again, pressing down harder. “Anything now?”

“Just more tickles.”

“Hhn.”

Clark sat back on the sofa. “Maybe we’re going at this the wrong way round.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well…” Clark worked it out some more, face scrunched up with it. “This is a side effect of Morgaine’s curse. Not something she intended. Maybe we need to work out what the purpose of her spell was, and deconstruct from there.”

“She…meant to kill us.”

Clark quirked an eyebrow. “Did she? How could she know I was even here that night?” True, he might have a ‘usual room’ and all--a concept that had caught him by surprise when Alfred casually tossed it out there--but how would Klarion, let alone Morgaine know that? “It had to have been intended for you, Bruce. I just got in the way.”

“Yes.” Bruce gave him a dark look. “You did. I would have handled it if you hadn’t gotten in the way.”

Clark returned him look for look. “How?”

Bruce huffed. “I would have thought of something.”

“I’m not going to apologize for trying to save you.”

Arms folded over his chest, Bruce said, “I didn’t expect you would.”

Seconds ticked by on the grandfather clock as the impasse stretched out. Then Bruce let out a breath and relaxed his posture. “Fine. Morgaine meant the curse for me. Where does that get us?”

“Alfred said it was a variant of the Maleficent curse?” Clark got up, headed for the spiral staircase that led to the upper level of the library, and a stash of books he’d spotted earlier.

“Constantine called it that, yes.”

“So we’re dealing with fairy tales.” Clark found the book he wanted, a beautifully bound and illustrated edition of Grimm’s _Fairy Tales_. Leafing through the pages with care, he sat back down beside Bruce. “What am I looking for? Cinderella?”

“Sleeping Beauty--except it will be _Little Briar Rose_  in this.”

“Hmm.” Clark kept leafing. “But I thought her name was Aurora.”

“This may shock you, Clark, but I haven’t actually made an extensive study of fairy tales and all their permutations.”

“Given the things we run across, I will admit to being surprised, at least. Ah--here we are.” The story located, he cleared his throat and read, “’A long time ago there were a King and Queen who said every day, ‘Ah, if only we had a child!’ but they never had one. But it happened that once when the Queen was bathing, a frog crept out of the water on to the land, and said to her, ‘Your wish shall be fulfilled; before a year had gone by you shall have a daughter.’”

Clark looked up from the page. “A frog?”

“Again: I have not made an extensive study of the subject matter.”

“I don’t remember a talking frog in the movie,” Clark muttered as he found his place again and continued. “’What the frog had said came true, and the Queen had a little girl who was so pretty that the King could not contain himself for joy, and ordered a great feast. He invited not only his kindred, friends and acquaintance, but also the Wise Women, in order that they might be kind and well-disposed towards the child. There were thirteen of them in his Kingdom, but as he had only twelve golden plates for them to eat out of, one of them had to be left at home.’”

“And so to Maleficent, the one not invited.” Bruce scooted closer so he could read over Clark’s shoulder, one hand unconsciously braced between Clark’s shoulder blades. “Her placing a curse on the child because she’d been snubbed seems a bit extreme,” he murmured, as though thinking out loud. “Hhn. No mention of her by that name. Also nothing about her being a dragon or fairy.”

“There--” Bruce’s fingers dug into his back a bit, like a cat absently kneading its paws, and Clark found he needed to stop for a moment and regather his thoughts. “There must be some other lore, if Constantine used that name. I don’t see him referencing Disney.” He angled his head to watch Bruce, so intent on the text, so determined to piece together the clues and solve this mystery. Meanwhile all he could think of was how close they were, and how, if Bruce would turn his head just…so…they would be close enough to-- But he couldn’t let his thoughts go there.

“I put nothing past him, but you’re probably right.” Bruce bent closer to examine an illustration. It was of Sleeping Beauty, reclining on a couch, the prince poised to bestow a restorative kiss. Pretty--but Clark found he far preferred the flesh and blood Prince of Gotham beside him.

He was glad Bruce had washed Matches Malone out of his hair, and that a quick scrubbing with a towel had been deemed sufficient to dry it. Left to nature, Bruce’s hair looked softer, with an unexpected hint of curls where it fell on his neck. Those strands tempted him, tempted him to touch, to tangle his fingers in them and feel the raven silk slip and slide against his skin.

Lost in his thoughts, it took him a moment to register that Bruce had turned to look at him. “Umm… I’m sorry. What were you saying?” That penetrating gaze, the sense that it could discover his deepest secrets, made him feel flustered. He adjusted his glasses as though they could protect him from that stare.

“I just wondered if they had some rudimentary idea of CPR back then, given all the emphasis on a kiss as the way to revive the princess.”

“Kiss of life?” His gaze drifted to Bruce’s lips. So often set in a grim line, quirked in a smile more often than people knew, they looked soft now. How would they feel, brushed against his own? Would they yield to him, part to a flick of his tongue? Would they curve with a wicked, teasing smile that tempted him to even bolder delights?

Clark swallowed and looked away. He really wished they would talk about something else. Perhaps they could return to the matter of basilisks? He wouldn’t have minded if one appeared right now. It probably wouldn’t kill him. It might only render him unconscious. Then Bruce could revive him with a kiss…

He shot to his feet, handed the book to Bruce. “Excuse me.”

Aware of Bruce’s curious gaze fixed on him, but unable to offer an explanation, he walked over to the French doors and cracked them open. The cold, fresh rain felt good on his face and he hoped it would help clear head. He thought he had mastered the art of sublimating his feelings for Bruce. Yet here he was, indulging in hopeless fantasy again, dangerously close to slipping up and and giving himself away.

“Are you all right?”

Clark pulled down one more deep, cool breath, and stepped back, shutting the doors. “Just needed some air.”

Bruce responded with a dubious eyebrow. Clark didn’t blame him. This night was getting stranger and stranger.

 

 

~*~

“Better now?” Bruce said as Clark returned, two steaming mugs of hot chocolate in hand. He looked more like himself at any rate. If it wasn’t impossible, Bruce would have sworn the Man of Steel had experienced a panic attack.

What was there here to set him off like that, though?

“I’m fine.” Clark set the mugs down on the table and sat back down on the sofa. “I just felt like hot chocolate.”

“Uh-huh.”

Clark sipped his chocolate, nodded at the legal pad Bruce had filled with notes. “Any progress?”

Bruce sank back into the cushions with a sigh, reached up to massage his neck again. “Not a lot. How long do you think your Mr. Mxyzptlk has been around?”

“He’s not _my_ Mr. Mxyzptlk,” Clark protested, caught by surprise as he tried to work out where this was going. “And I have no idea. It’s something I’ve never thought about. Why?”

“Read _Rumpelstiltskin_  sometime. It may ring a bell.” Could that be the truth behind fairy tales, magic: they were what happened when this world bumped into a parallel dimension? Didn’t Clark even call Mxyzptlk an imp? It might not explain everything but it was a start; it was something he could get his hands on, so to speak.

The hot chocolate did look good. He picked up his mug, took a sip, and sat back again, hands cradled around the warmth. “Did you know the first time the Evil Queen tried to kill Snow White, she sold her new laces for her corset and when Snow White tried them, the Evil Queen pulled the laces so tight Snow White passed out because she couldn’t breathe? When that didn’t work, the Evil Queen sold her a poisoned comb to put in her hair. Again, the dwarfs got to Snow White in time and saved her. The poisoned apple was the third attempt.”

“Third time’s the charm?”

“It would have been, if Prince Charming hadn’t come along.”

Clark put his hot chocolate down and skewed around to face him. “And what do you deduce from all that?”

“Damn little.” He had the sense that a revelation was right there in front of him, that he only needed to find one more piece of the puzzle that would bring total clarity. But what?  

He rolled his shoulders against the sofa cushions, head tipped forward, nearly tempted to call it a night. They could try again in the morning. If nothing else, Constantine should be able to point them in the right direction. Stubbornness or pride, though, he wanted to meet Constantine on as equal a footing as possible.

“Is your neck sore?”

Bruce canted Clark weary look. “Pretty much everything is sore and achy, Clark.”

He pushed his glasses up again, earnest concern in his eyes. “Can I help?”

“Can you share some of your Kryptonian regenerative powers with me?”

Head tilted, Clark might have been working out if that was possible. Some jobs were beyond even Superman, though. “Maybe not. Lois says I give great massages, though.”

“Does she?” Bruce heard the hint of frost in his voice and regretted it. He might as well be jealous of the sun that gave him his powers. Sometimes he wished Lois Lane was the love of Clark’s life instead of his best friend. She should have been; she could give Clark everything he deserved. Even if it were a possibility, what on earth could he ever offer?

Taken aback by his thoughts, he sat up straighter--or tried to. Lips thinned against a groan of pain, he made to try again only to find himself halted in mid-motion and settled back with as little effort as it would take him to pick up a kitten.

“Clark--” His protest ignored; he was encouraged to shift around a bit as gentle but unyielding hands positioned him just so.

“Shh.” Warm breath ruffled his hair. “Let me do this for you, Bruce. Just once. I’ll never tell.”

“Yes, wouldn’t want it to get out that I’m only human.” Warm, solid hands pressed against his neck, slipped down between his shoulder blades. He could have extricated himself. It would have been simplicity itself. Somehow it didn’t seem worth the effort just now--and he simply wouldn’t examine that thought too closely. Who would ever know?

“Everyone knows you’re human, Bruce. That’s why you’re so terrifying, so astonishing. To do the things you do, and be only human…” Clark’s hands massaged his shoulders, radiating warmth that he could feel deep in every aching muscle. “Every time I think I’ve seen your limits, you pull another rabbit out of your cowl.”

God, he really did give a good massage. Head tilted forward so Clark could work on his neck and shoulders, he snorted. “Better than a basilisk, I suppose. You know, if _The Daily Planet_  doesn’t work out, you might look being a chiropractor.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Clark said. Bruce could hear the smile in his voice.

Beyond a deep sigh every now and then, Bruce trusted Clark could hear nothing in his voice. To encourage that, he tried to think of dry, academic things. That was the only way to get to the root of this ludicrous fairy tale curse. Apply reason, and all would be revealed.

Might another perspective spark enlightenment? “What strikes you about the stories? What purpose do they serve?”

Clark worked on his shoulders, voice thoughtful as he answered. “I suppose at their core, they’re meant to be cautionary tales. Be careful who you trust, appearances can be deceiving, that kind of thing.”

“And the princesses are just a prop, a prize to be won?” Bruce mused. “Do all of them even want to be rescued? Maybe Cinderella just wanted to dance at a ball.”

“I think she might have wanted more than that. There’s nothing wrong with needing help, or even needing to be saved. We all do sometimes.”

“Even Superman?”

“Even Batman.”

A protest leapt to the tip of his tongue. It went unspoken.

Clark’s fingers snagged in his hair, pressed into his scalp. For a moment he thought Clark might cradle the back of his head, might turn him, might… But he couldn’t let the image form past that.

He did extricate himself then. There wasn’t time for this kind of indulgence. So he had some aches and pains. He was used to them. They were a price he was willing to pay.

He got up, paced over to the piano, hesitated a moment with his fingers poised to strike the chords that would reveal access to the Cave. He craved its solitude; longed to wrap himself in the darkness. He felt exposed here in the light. Yet he yearned for it, for that light, that warmth. He wanted to get drunk on it and feel it burn through every atom of his being.

He crashed his fingers down on the keys.

“Bruce--”

“Don’t. Just…don’t.”

There was no shudder of the wall moving. He hadn’t hit the right keys. No surprise there. Did everyone know The World’s Greatest Detective was a joke? That he didn’t actually have a goddamn clue about anything?

He went to the French doors, stared out at the rain-shrouded night. That’s where he should be, keeping to his oath. He didn’t belong here, in this warmth, tempted to reach for what could never be his.

A hand pressed against the door, he watched raindrops strike and trickle down, felt the cold, hard glass start to ground him.

“You said the curse was meant to kill me. How?”

“I don’t know.” Clark got up from the sofa; Bruce watched him approach in the glass. “The…smoke, maybe? If there hadn’t been anyone to call for help?”

He didn’t sound sure of his theory. Bruce didn’t blame him. “But how is that a curse?” He ran through all the stories again, in search of something to make sense of it all. “A curse is vindictive at its heart. The subject is meant to suffer. And if not them,” he thought of Snow White, in suspended animation in her glass coffin, “then anyone who cares about them.”

He turned to face Clark. “What was supposed to happen to me?”

Clark shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe…” He bit his lip, shook his head again, a storm of emotions in his eyes. “Maybe my being there…deflected, changed the intent.”

“To what? To--this?” He held out his hands, palms up, the marks on each standing out so stark and adamant. “What the hell is this, Clark?”

“Does it have to be a bad thing?” Clark caught hold of one hand, ran his thumb across the mark.

Bruce fought not to respond to that touch. Tried to pull his hand free, his fingers dragging against Clark’s. “It’s a curse. They are generally considered to be malign”

“But they can be broken. There’s always a way to break them. Even if there are conditions attached, there’s always a way.”

Conditions--time limits and penalties attached, Bruce thought, certain he was right on the cusp of something now. He looked away as a memory sparked. Of course: what else could it be? What else could be so perfect? “For who could ever learn to love a bat…” he murmured, desolation a dull tone in his voice.

“It wouldn’t be that hard.”

He blinked, looked at Clark. “What?”

Clark touched his face, stroked a thumb along a cheekbone. “I said it wouldn’t be difficult.” His gaze dropped to Bruce’s lips for a moment, flicked back up to meet his eyes. There was no mockery in those blue depths. Only sincerity, only… But Bruce ducked away from that, afraid to believe it.

“Clark, you--”

Clark silenced him with one finger laid across his lips. The gesture frustrated Bruce in all sorts of ways, not least because he couldn’t even bite the damn thing.

Head tilted, a smile touching his lips that said he knew exactly what Bruce was thinking, Clark said, “What have you got to lose?”

Everything? Every trace of hope he had managed to cling to? And what if the curse passed to Clark?

“It only works in fairy tales, Clark.”

“Maybe. And,” Clark cupped a hand along his jaw, “maybe not,” he finished on a whisper as he came in closer and brushed his lips against Bruce’s.

Nothing happened. Of course nothing happened. True love's kiss was just a fairy ta… Bruce lost his train of thought as Clark kissed him again. Kissed his lips, the corner of his mouth, the tip of his nose. Bruce turned his head away, felt lips graze his ear, felt the soft, wet tip of a tongue lick just behind the lobe.

“Dammit,” he growled and wound his fingers into Clark’s hair to drag him back, right _there_ , so Bruce could kiss his mouth. Just once, just this one time, he swore, the vow rendered meaningless as Clark’s lips parted to him.

He tasted like hot chocolate and cinnamon toast. Like starlight and endless summer days. And Bruce didn’t even care if that made any sense. 

“I think we broke something,” Clark said against his ear.

No, Bruce was fairly certain he was fully intact.

“It’s a vase.”

Bruce stared back at him, still deciphering words and meaning. “Ming?” He looked around, spotted the shards on the carpet. “Oh, the Dresden. I never liked that anyway.”

How could they break things when all they had done was kiss? What did that herald for other activities?

“We should--”

“Glue the pieces back together?”

Bruce frowned at him. “Alfred will know.” They were still too close, hands still roving--Clark stealing a quick kiss. “We should stop. You don’t know what you--”

“What I’m doing? What I want?” Clark punctuated each question with a kiss. “I can assure you I do. I have wanted this almost from the time we first met.”

Bruce pushed back, held him at arm’s length. “You didn’t even like me when we first met.”

“No,” Clark allowed with a slow smile. “But I knew I wanted to see you again, that I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

Bruce needed some time to absorb that. The concept was familiar enough to him; he just hadn’t known Clark felt the same way. Revelations all over the place tonight.

“I’m not Prince Charming, Clark.”

“And I’m no damsel in distress.”

“Glad to hear it," he murmured as he reeled him in for another kiss.

~*~


	3. Chapter 3

In Bruce’s experience, taking someone to bed was a serious, even solemn business. Apparently he needed to broaden his horizons.

“Need some help there?” he called over from where he lounged on the bed, enjoying the show.

A muffled grunt answered him from somewhere within the tangled blue sweater that threatened to defeat the Man of Steel.

Bruce sank back on his elbows and watched as the battle ensued. One moment it looked like Clark would gain the upper hand and emerge victorious any second from the depths of the dark blue knitwear. Then it would get him again, only a few errant curls visible as the sweater took the next round.

Just as all appeared lost, however, Clark succeeded in getting a firm grasp on the sweater and with one yank tore it off over his head. Flushed from the  conflict, hair rumpled, and glasses at a cockeyed angle, he glared at the sweater and tossed it over a chair.

“This never happens when I have to change into my suit,” he grumbled. He reached up to run a hand through his hair, yanked the glasses off. Bruce would have pointed out he should have removed the glasses to begin with, but was inclined to think that point was self-evident now.

“The citizens of Metropolis would be relieved to know that, I’m sure.” Did that mean he had the suit on even now? Bruce wondered. The vivid imagery that sprang to mind, accompanied by an intense erotic kick, startled him for a second. But no: even from here he could tell there was nothing beneath the crisp white cotton shirt but skin. Warm, bare skin that he was seconds away from touching. Still, it was intriguing to discover a previously unknown kink at his age.

He needed to act quickly, though. He could see a flicker of uncertainty in Clark’s eyes, a sense of feeling awkward, and that could not be allowed to stand.

He sat up, crooked a finger. “Come here.”

On the other hand, he may have been wrong about that moment of doubt. There was no indication of it now. Instead of obeying that invitation and advancing on the four-poster bed, Clark looked at him with a smile that was in no sense demure, and gave a quick jerk of his head. “Come and get me.”

Those words, the seductive challenge in them, the spark of playful devilry in his eyes, shot up Bruce’s spine in an exhilarating thrill of anticipation. He hadn’t expected this, he had envisioned things quite differently, and although he stood up from the bed he kept one hand curled around a post to anchor him. It was that or pounce--and he did not want to pounce. Not now, not yet.

His own voice pitched to a seductive timber, he batted it back. “Don’t think I won’t.”

One dark eyebrow arched upward to indicate the challenge was accepted. “Brave words,” Clark murmured as his hands went to his belt buckle.

Bruce watched, wet his lips, reminded himself to keep breathing. Was Clark really going to indulge in an impromptu striptease? All of the data he had collected on him and this vital detail had escaped him? His brain ping-ponged between what he knew and what appeared to be happening and couldn’t quite connect them. Things were not as they seemed, he felt sure of that much. He watched the way Clark fumbled with the belt, unable to gain any mastery over the simple prong, and experienced one of those sudden flashes of insight that illuminated everything.

Clark was stalling. Clark was flummoxed and not sure what to do next.

With that insight, Bruce felt a weight lift. It wasn’t just him then. He knew what to do now. He was fairly certain he knew what to do now.

He nodded at the belt Clark. “I could help with that,” he offered. He kept it low key, as bereft of suggestive implication as was possible.

After a moment, Clark let out a gusty sigh and let his hands drop to his sides. “Okay.”

Bruce nodded to himself and pushed off from the bed post to cross the distance that separated them. Barely four feet of plush carpet and he almost wished it was four thousand. Not that four million would him find him any better prepared. If this was only about sex, about chalking up another conquest, he could put on a mask of decadent savoir faire and proceed without a care. There could be no masks here. Those never worked with Clark anyway.

He wanted… He  _ wanted _  to rip all of their clothes off, he wanted them to have their wicked way with each other. And he wanted to bask; for them to take their leisurely time over this. Could they do both?

Close enough to bask, Bruce shook his head at himself. “What have you done to me?” he said, no trace of accusation in the words. He touched Clark’s face, brushed fingertips along a cheekbone, scraped his knuckles over the cleft in that perfect chin. “I don’t know how to be debonair with you,” he confessed.

“Funny,” Clark caught his hand, kissed the bruised and scraped knuckles, “looks good to me.”

Bruce swore he felt that touch of his lips right down to his toes. He shivered, swallowed, sent himself another memo to keep breathing. “Maybe you, ah,” Clark turned his hand, kissed the palm, “maybe you should set your bar higher.”

Clark looked at him through a fringe of eyelashes, a roguish spark in his eyes, mischief tugging at his lips. “No, my bar’s just right.” He kissed the inside of Bruce’s wrist, lingered over the pulse point, sent it off the charts.

Bruce knew he should respond with a witty innuendo. He couldn’t locate one to save his life.

How was he supposed to form any coherent thought anyway, with Clark working a hand under his sweater to massage the small of his back? Bruce pressed into him, one arm wrapped around broad shoulders, his other hand tangled in the curls that clustered at the nape of Clark’s neck. “This is not how I imagined it would be.”

Clark drew back to give him a look of dawning delight at that confession. “This is exactly how I pictured it.”

“You pictured this?”

“Lots.”

He’d pictured this…lots. Bruce knew he would be a long time wrapping his mind around that idea. And maybe he should have minded that Clark hadn’t anticipated the playboy of the tabloids, expecting him to be all suave and sophisticated, a modern day Casanova. He had a certain reputation, after all. With Clark nuzzling along the column of his throat, however, and hiking up his sweater to stroke all along his back, Bruce found he couldn’t mind one damn thing at the moment.

One question was answered anyway: Kryptonians--his Kryptonian at least--rumbled with pleasure as they kissed and were kissed. He had wondered. 

He undid shirt buttons, peeled back the white cotton, put his mouth to the hollow of Clark’s collarbone--the suprasternal notch--tasted his skin; savored the taste of him, a trace of salt, something spicy, not quite of this world. He nibbled, nuzzled, licked a lazy path downward. More buttons got in his way. He dealt with them. Pulled the shirt loose, out of his way. Was there a more glorious chest somewhere in the universe? Bruce mused as his fingers stroked through the soft, wiry hair of Clark’s chest. He didn’t care; this was the one he wanted to touch, to feel the flex of muscles responding to his caress. A demigod who could smash the Moon--and he was at Bruce’s mercy. Tremors ran through the powerful body, a throaty moan escaped as Bruce swiped his tongue across a stiffened nipple.

Bruce rubbed his cheek against the warm, sun-kissed skin, and smiled as soft hairs tickled his nose. Ear pressed to Clark’s chest, he listened to the rumbles of pleasure, soaked up every sensation as Clark kept up his own relentless campaign to drive Bruce out of his mind.

Clark drew him back up, an almost frantic look in his eyes as he sought Bruce’s mouth again. Bruce met him, just as desperate, dizzy with it. Far away at the back of his mind something tried to ping for his attention, some idea tried to take shape. He shut it down, pushed it further back. He tore his mouth from Clark’s, only enough to graze kisses along that magnificent jaw, down along his throat. Clark’s gasps were erotic music. The way Clark grabbed and pulled at him fed his own hunger and spurred him on. He kissed his way along Clark’s chest, hands kneading up and down his naked back. Clark shuddered against him, muscles contracting, fluttering, as Bruce dropped to his knees to leave soft, wet kisses over his stomach.

Abs of steel indeed. The thought flashed through his mind and he looked up to share the absurdity, the laughter that threatened to bubble up. What he saw shocked his brain into clarity.

“Clark? Clark, what is it?” Ardor dampened, he tried to decipher Clark’s expression, understand the paroxysm of fear that pulled the handsome face into a grimace. “Clark-- Wait! Fireplace!” 

At the ominous red-white glow that began to suffuse Clark’s eyes, Bruce grabbed his shoulders, pushed him around so that when the laser beams went off they hit the logs, the kindling, instead of blasting a hole in the wall. At that, Clark must have gained some last-minute command over his heat vision because, instead of the raging inferno Bruce expected, there was only a quite acceptable blaze going.

Breath ragged, chest heaving with it, Bruce dragged a hand back through his hair as he stared from Clark to the fire and back again. “What the fuck was  _ that _ ?” he demanded, the timber of his voice up about half an octave.

Face flushed with embarrassment, Clark gave a halfhearted shrug. He hugged his shirt around him. “It, umm, hasn’t happened in a long time.” He sounded remote, as though trying to distance himself from the moment--as though shocked himself.

Bruce stared at him, scrubbed at his hair a few more times as he processed that statement. “So it’s happened before?”

“Not since I was about fifteen.”

Not since he was about fifteen… Bruce needed some time to process that, too. He needed to move as well, and paced around the room, fiddling with things; picking them up, putting them down again. He ended up in front of the fireplace, its flames crackling away. Back to it, he looked back at Clark, still over near the bed. Clark glanced away but not before Bruce caught a glimpse of disappointment, resignation, in his eyes.

Bruce closed the distance between them with no hesitation this time. When he reached to touch Clark’s face, Clark flinched away. Not about to relent, Bruce let his hand glide along Clark’s jaw, cupped it to encourage him to look up and meet his eyes.

When Clark did, shoulders slumped as though in defeat, his eyes were their usual calm, clear blue. No trace of fire. There was an echo of old pain, though, remembered shame. Bruce was ready to meet them.

“Tell me.”

Clark sighed, pulled a face. “It’ll sound stupid.”

Bruce corrected him. “Weird, maybe.”

Clark looked at him, conceded with a tilt of his head.

Head lowered a bit, Bruce searched his eyes. “Okay?”

Clark heaved another pensive sigh, nodded. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Bruce confirmed it, touched his forehead to Clark’s. Stayed like that until Clark’s breathing was calmed, until they were almost synchronized. “Come on, let’s sit down for this.”

Clark let himself be settled at the foot of the bed. Bruce sat beside him, resting against a bed post as he watched Clark. Several more seconds ticked by before Clark started to talk, halting at first, gaining in confidence as Bruce listened--just listened.

It was easy, from a distance, to imagine it must have been one mind-blowing amazement after another as Clark had grown up and come into his powers. Some of it had been, but reality was never so idyllic. That Clark had been lonely, so often left on the outside looking in, and filled with a yearning to just fit in, was something Bruce could understand. Adolescence was rough on everyone, of course, but how much sharper did those anxieties go when you most definitely were not like other boys?

“I had thought, hoped, that my…enhanced hearing was the end of it, the worst of it.” Clark’s voice was quiet, his words chosen with care. Things left unsaid, but underscored all the same. Bruce was as guilty as anyone, guiltier than most probably, in seeing the things Clark could do as useful tools. Had it ever crossed his mind to wonder at the cost to Clark, the toll it might take on him? And to experience that without warning, bombarded by a terrifying cacophony of noise… Bruce couldn’t have handled it now, much less as a child. Once again he was reminded that Clark’s true power, his incredible strength, had nothing to do with leaping tall buildings in a single bound or stopping a train before it plummeted off the tracks. 

“I wanted to find something where it could all be useful--the strength, that I couldn’t be hurt, that I could hear a mouse acres away in the corn.” Clark shook his head, a rueful smile on his lips. “I wanted to be all sorts of things--a Boy Scout, a fireman, an astronaut--but they all felt like impossible dreams.” He glanced away, a muscle jumping in his jaw as he fought down the old, remembered pain.

Bruce longed to take him in his arms, soothe that pain, battle his demons. He couldn’t, anymore than Clark could vanquish the ghosts, the regrets that haunted Bruce. He could share it, though. They could ground each other.

“So--the heat vision?”

“The heat vision.” Clark nodded, hunched forward a bit. “It…coincided with the onset of puberty.” He slanted a look at Bruce. “You can laugh if you want to.”

“Not laughing.” He did indulge a hope this wasn’t going to involve a biological imperative for Clark to return to his home world to mate, however.

Clark shrugged, frowned at the carpet. “It wasn’t really noticeable at first. My eyes would feet itchy, hot for a moment. My mom would put a cold compress on them, though, and it would pass.” He shook his head at the memory, a trace of fondness in the gesture. “There was nothing we could do but wait and see.”

“And you saw.”

“Oh, yes,” Clark said with feeling. He nodded to himself; Bruce could almost see him square his shoulders against the memory, ready to forge on no matter how difficult. “About the only athletic activity I could participate in with some safety was swimming. I had to learn not to stay under too long, and moderate my speed, but once I got the hang of it, it was something I could do.” Remembered pride in this accomplishment, not being on the sidelines for once, lit his eyes, brought a smile to his lips.

“And then a new kid transferred in, Greg Martin. He was…” Clark stumbled for words now, fond nostalgia giving way to embarrassment still sharp after all these years. “The first time he came to the pool and took off his robe, I…” He cleared his throat, a fierce frown directed at the carpet. “Let’s just say that when my newly-triggered heat vision hit the water, it was hot enough to make it boil like water in a tea kettle and send up clouds of steam. If anyone had been in the pool…” He shook his head against the memory, still blaming himself after all these years.

“They thought it was a problem with the pipes, the boiler. No one suspected me of causing it. But I quit the swim team the next day.”

There was a lot of information there to file away for future contemplation. Right now, Bruce zeroed in on the most important detail. “I’m sorry you lost that chance to just be a kid.”

Clark’s smile was wistful, but warmed to something intimate as Bruce rubbed his back. “So was I. Anyway,” he went on, shoulders well and truly squared now, “my dad made the connection between my latest power and The Incident.” The way he said it, Bruce knew it had to be capitalized in his mind.

“So that was one more thing I had to figure out, work out how to control it. I really thought I had it down.”

“Until just now.”

Clark’s face was expressive of his woebegone dismay. “I didn’t expect it, not after all this time.”

He wasn’t the only one, Bruce reflected. If either of them had been just a split second slower on the uptake… Well, he just wouldn’t dwell on that.

“So…” A sense of something not unlike began to settle over him, however. Curiously, the prospect that he might be accidentally incinerated in the heat of passion was not the most important factor.

“Bruce?” Clark had turned to regard him, concern in his eyes. “Are you all right?”

On his feet once more, Bruce paced over to the fireplace, came back to the bed as he worked things out. “The first time this happened, you were in high school.”

Gaze intent as he tried to puzzle him out, Clark nodded. “Yes. The start of my junior year.”

The start of his junior year… “And nothing since?”

“Not since I worked out how to control it.”

Not since he worked out how to control it… Bruce hoped he was wrong. No matter how he added things up, though, the answer was the same. “Clark, are you-- I mean,” he sat down beside him, got up again. “I mean, you  _ have _ …?”

Clark stared back at him, eyebrows raised in inquiry. “I have--what? Bruce?”

There was nothing else for it, then. “Are you a virgin?” He blurted it out, to get it out there, to put it on the table. It wasn’t a difficult question but Bruce was hyper aware of the seconds that slid by as Clark only looked back at him, thoughtful, solemn, and in no apparent rush to get around to an answer. 

When Clark did finally answer, it was no help. “Would it matter?”

“Would it matter? Would. It. Matter?” Bruce growled back. “Yes, goddammit! It’s a hell of responsibility, deflowering the last son of Krypton!”

And where exactly the hell did Clark get off smiling at him, looking like he might bust out laughing any minute?

“It’s not funny.” A trifle melodramatic perhaps. This was a situation fraught with melodrama, after all.

“It’s kind of funny,” Clark countered, entirely too reasonable about everything.

“God…” Bruce sat down, hunched forward with his face in his hands. “Someone should write a how-to book about this.”

“ _ The IDIOT’s Guide to Dating an Alien _ ?”

Bruce raised his head to send him a sour look. “Again: this is not funny.”

“You’re not looking at it the right way, then.” Clark reached over, clasped his shoulder, rubbed. “Look, in hindsight I probably should have warned you--”

“That would have been good, yeah,” Bruce muttered into his hands.

“--but I honestly did not think it would be a problem.”

Bruce raised his head again. “Because…?”

“Because,” Clark took a deep breath, “while there is no one I would rather entrust my deflowering to--”

Bruce gave him a hard look; Clark’s lips twitched with a puckish smile.

“--as it happens, that isn’t a concern.”

“It isn’t? So you’re not…?”

“Definitely not.”

And it wasn’t that Bruce was disappointed, or that he had coveted that responsibility. So why did he feel a twitch of resentment, of jealousy, toward whoever had taken on that responsibility?

“It wasn’t Greg Martin, was it?”

Mischief gave way to exasperation and Clark’s hand fell away from his shoulder. “No, it wasn’t Greg Martin. I made a point of not seeing him again.”

“Okay.”

A deep sigh, then, “Are you going to keep poking this with a stick?”

“You have met me, right?” He scooted around to face Clark, reached over to grasp one of his hands. “Look, it’s none of my business. You don’t owe me any answers.”

“That’s true.” Clark studied their entwined hands, turning things over in his head. Decision made, he nodded to himself and spoke. “Her name was Laurie. She was a waitress at a little cafe near the beach where I worked as a lifeguard one summer. I’d had about five years to figure things out by then, so,” he shrugged, “there were no problems.”

“Were you in love with her?”

“I thought so, as much as I knew how to be then. If we’d had more time…” He shook his head against the memory. “Some things aren’t meant to be forever.”

No, no they weren’t. Bruce couldn’t say he felt bad that Laurie hadn’t been  _ the _  one. “What happened?”

“What usually happened. There was a shark attack. I knew I could save the man’s life, save his leg if I cauterized the wound with my heat vision. No way to keep that a secret,” Clark’s expression turned wry, “so I got out of town.”

“No goodbyes?”

Clark shook his head. “Wasn’t time.”

Thoughtful, Bruce disentangled his hand from Clark’s, but only so he scoot further up on the bed and stretch out. He patted the spot beside him. After a long moment, Clark settled in beside him.

Bruce rolled over on his side, head propped up to look at him. “So--Greg  _ and _  Laurie.”

“Umm.”

Tit for tat, Bruce supposed. “You have every right to interrogate me about my romantic past.” Such as it was.

“Hasn’t most of it been splashed across the tabloids?”

“Not the important ones.”

Clark rolled over to face him, considering, reaching over to rest his hand on Bruce’s side. “Selina Kyle?”

“Yes.” As quickly as he wondered what Selina would make of current developments, Bruce dismissed the thought. She wouldn’t have a problem with it. In fact, she would likely be so far from having a problem that she would suggest a threesome. His mind ricocheted away from that idea.

“And?” Clark prompt.

“And…” Bruce looked away for a second as regrets surged in tide the tide. “Harvey Dent.” He could tell that one was a surprise. “It was a long, long time ago.”

“I guess it would be.” Clark stretched out on his back, staring up at the canopy stretched over the bed. A rich, dark gold brocade in a an elaborate flower design, the canopy, with its curtains, might have been the lair of some medieval aristocrat. Bruce had entertained notions of getting Clark in here, letting the curtains fall around them.

Could it yet be salvaged?

“We need another book,” Clark said. “ _ The IDIOT’S Guide to How to Kill the Mood _ .” He spoke the words lightly enough but Bruce heard the regret in them all the same.

“I doubt it would be a best seller.” 

“Probably not.” Clark made to move, to sit up. “I should…probably go.”

“You should stay.”

Clark looked at him. “But--”

“There’ve been others since Laurie? You didn’t incinerate any of them?”

A worthy glower settled over Clark’s features. “Your point?”

“My point,” he splayed a hand over Clark’s bare belly, the hairs soft again his palm, “is that while the risk of immolation while in the throes of passion would normally be a deal breaker,” he watched the glower deepen, “I have this idea we can handle it.”

A glower began to lift. “You’d be the one immolated.”

“That has not escaped me.”

“But you still want…this?”

Bruce tugged him closer, threw one leg over Clark’s hip. “What do you think?”

“I think we may have to take it slow and easy.” Clark shifted against him, hiked up his sweater.

“Not a problem.” Slow and easy sounded just about right, as a matter of fact.

~*~

Firelight was their only illumination. It was enough. 

Looming over him, Bruce looked his fill, tried to. He could never get enough of this. He thought he could welcome a lifetime of trying to.

And it wasn’t that he had never seen Clark stripped naked. He had. One or two instances had been the sort where accidental ogling could have easily occurred. He hadn’t let himself indulge. The wait had been worth it. There were even unexpected discoveries to make.

“Why didn’t I know you had a birthmark?” He traced its outlines with his fingertips. A small splotch on Clark’s right inner thigh, moderately darker than the rest of his skin. Depending how one looked at it, it was suggestive of a butterfly, or a heart--or a bat. Bruce knew which one he preferred.

“You never asked?” Clark said from his opulent sprawl among the tumbled pillows, rumpled sheets and blankets. One arm was raised behind his head, right knee drawn up just a bit; he looked smug and content and thoroughly, carnally satisfied. As well he should. “Is it important?”

Bruce turned his head, kissed the mark, lingered over it until Clark twisted restlessly against him. “Slow and easy, remember?” Bruce reminded him as he drew away and stretched out beside him, immune--temporarily--to Clark’s mutinous look.

“I think we have established there is no cause for concern.”

“ _ I _  think we have established that the one who might be incinerated is the one who makes the rules.”

Clark looked like he wanted to take issue with that. After Bruce had kissed and petted him for awhile, he was soon back to content. Bruce felt fairly well pleased himself.

“Anyway,  _ is _  it important?”

Bruce stared at him a moment, picking up the threads of conversation. “The birthmark… Probably not.”

“But you’re suspicious, because of this?” Clark held out his hand, the  ** S **  Bruce had produced still visible.

“The thought did cross my mind it’s a hell of a coincidence.”

“Only if you think it’s a bat.”

“Hhn. Well have you always had it?”

“As far as I know. We could call my mother to make sure.”

“We are not calling your mother.” 

“I suppose,” Clark splayed a hand along Bruce’s chest, his touch tender against the old scars as they could still hurt, “we could test your theory.”

“I have a theory?” At first, Bruce had welcomed the soft illumination of the fire as a way to minimize his scars. They didn’t shame him. He had earned every one of them; they were reminders of his failures--one or two of hard-won victories. He could admit to a sense of being some gnarled old Hephaestus next to Clark’s Apollo, however. He couldn’t maintain that long, not when Clark looked at him as if every feature--every battle scar--was something to be treated as rare and cherished.

Propped up on arms that could never grow weary, Clark leaned over him, equal degrees of affection and desire in his face. “The thought passed through your mind that my birthmark might be magical in nature.”

Well, he could hardly deny it. “It was a thought, that’s all. And anyway, how would we test it?”

“Easy.” Clark grinned. He caught Bruce’s hands, pressed them down against the mattress, swooped in to rain kisses over his face, his throat, shoulders, chest. “I’ll just have to conduct an exhaustive inspection to see if you have the crest of the House of El anywhere on your body.”

Well, one of them would be exhausted anyway, Bruce thought. 

“You will search in vain,” he said, breathing hard as he wrestled Clark across the mattress. Breathless from the wrestling--or the way Clark was kissing his neck, that was the question. Another question was if he would have to wear a turtleneck tomorrow.

Clark reared back and raised an eyebrow at him. “That sounds like a challenge.”

“Take it anyway you want to.”

The words were barely out of his mouth when Bruce found himself flat on his back, restrained with no more effort than Bruce used to tie his shoes. “Maybe we need a safe word.”

Clark instantly relaxed his hold so Bruce could wriggle free. Expression troubled, he asked, “Do we?”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but it might be a good idea.” Bruce watched him turn that over. “Are you taking it the wrong way?”

“Actually,” touch light as dandelion fluff now, Clark smiled, “that makes a lot of sense. What would you suggest?”

“I don’t know.” Bruce frowned in every indication of furious thought. “I’ll think of something, something with bat in it.”

Head cocked, Clark gave him a doubtful look. “I’m not sure if you’re kidding.”

“Good.” Satisfaction laced the simple syllable--lit his smile as he looked up at Clark. He had to maintain some sense of mystery.

~*~

_ If only this was real… _

Bruce knew what he had to do. He might regret it all the rest of his life, but he had no other choice.

=============================

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know, bear with me a little longer... ;)
> 
> The preceding contains a shout out to a moment in a "Smallville" episode where that Clark discovered his heat vision. It is given a couple of twists here.
> 
> And a big thank you to the folks in the SuperBat Big Bang chat room (you know who you are) for encouragement and help along the way.


	4. "Four"

“Sir, would you know anything about this?” Alfred held out the shards of Dresden he had discovered hidden in a drawer. He was quite certain the vase had been unharmed when he had gone to bed last night.

The entrance to the Cave just closing behind him, Bruce spared a him a brief glance. “No time for knickknacks, Alfred.”

“Quelle surprise,” Alfred murmured as he trailed Bruce out into the hall. “Where are you going?”

“Out.” Bruce shrugged into an overcoat, a fine herringbone tweed. “Look,” he paused with his hand on the door, “there’s something I have to do, Alfred. I don’t know how long it will take.”

Intrigued and concerned in equal measure, Alfred assessed him. He was struck by a sense of something like grief that hovered about him. “Sir? What’s happened?”

“I really don’t want to talk about it, Alfred. I have to go.” He opened the door, stepped out into the cold, gray dawn, the sun barely a suggestion in the eastern sky. “Let our guest sleep in. Tell him…tell him…” Seemingly bereft of words, of hope, Bruce shook his head and repeated, “I have to go.”

So it was like that, Alfred thought as he watched Bruce walk off to the garage. Foolish of him to have hoped for a happier outcome. He waited until he had seen Bruce drive off, then went back inside and shut the door against the late October chill.

Back in the library, he replaced the shards of Dresden in the drawer and aimed a thoughtful look at the Cave’s hidden entrance. After a quick debate with himself, he went over to the baby grand piano and played three notes from Beethoven's  _ Moonlight Sonata _ . The bookcase shuddered open and he stepped onto the lift.

If there were answers to be had, this would be the place to find them. What he might do then? That would be between him and his conscience.

~*~

No one would believe it, but there were times Bruce wanted to put his brain on pause, just live in the moment. He nearly had last night. Through everything, every amazing moment with Clark, that sense of something out of kilter had persisted until he couldn’t ignore it anymore.

In a burst of clarity all the pieces had snapped together. He hadn't welcomed the knowledge that burst upon him. He had wanted to linger in that perfect moment as long as possible, where Clark slept beside him and he could believe in happily ever after. The bubble had popped, though, and took his denial with it. None of this was real. It had all come about because of the curse, because of how Clark reacted to magic. Constantine’s fix had been temporary; Morgaine had worked a trap, a sting in the tail meant to destroy him.

It already felt like she had succeeded.

Pulled into a strip mall parking lot near the coffee drive-through, Bruce took out his phone and activated the app he had installed for tracking Jim Gordon. It looked like he and Constantine had moved onto the third crime scene. There would be one more stop after that, the old Grandview Memorial Gardens cemetery. Good a place as any for a rendezvous, he decided.

He doused a spark of pique that wanted to flare up at knowing Jim had gone ahead and called Constantine in as a consultant. They had talked of that but hadn’t made a final decision. Jim had every right to make that call without him,of course. What if Jim had tried to get hold of him last but hadn’t been able to reach him?

He chalked up another mark of guilt and took some consolation, not much, in the knowledge that the Ouija Board Killer hadn’t struck last night. That should have been warning sign enough last night, how that possibility hadn’t crossed his mind for an instant. He had been so wrapped up in Clark that nothing else had registered.

He took a sip of the coffee and tipped his head back again the headrest, thoughts ready to drift to last night. The pull, the power of the curse, was that strong. It must have been fed by every minute they spent together, even there in the library; each casual, unconscious touch stoking the fire higher.

Was Clark awake yet? Could Bruce have taken that risk, to stay long enough to witness Clark waking up after their night together, store up one more memory against the desolation to come? He could picture it, how Clark would turn into the sun, weak as it was, that streamed through the tall windows and fell across the bed. He would be sleepy and rumpled, a smile lighting his face as he turned to Bruce--to where Bruce should be resting beside him.

Would Clark immediately realize that Bruce had run away? Would he give him some benefit of doubt? Either way, the truth of what Bruce had done would be impossible to ignore and that bright smile would dim and die.

Bruce could chalk that up in the guilt column as well. 

He checked the app again. Jim Gordon was in motion, headed for the cemetery. Bruce started the car and pulled out of the parking lot. Remorse was a familiar companion; he could endure a little bit more.

~*~

Face smooshed in his pillow, Clark felt in no hurry to give up his current state of comfort. There was a line of thought among folks who liked to speculate about him, his Superman alter ego, that he probably didn’t require sleep. Clark could not outright deny that theory as he had never tested it. He could only say that while it might be true that he didn’t need sleep, it was equally true that he did enjoy a restful snooze in a comfortable bed. This was the best night’s sleep he’d had in a long time.

A quick check assured him there was no crisis, current or imminent, where his abilities were needed right this minute. With that taken care of, he burrowed back into the mattress, the sheets soft against his skin.

Incongruities nudged up against him as he dozed. This was not his bed, he realized as he rolled over on his back and took in the rich fabrics, the diaphanous bed curtains that fell around him. This grandiose piece of furniture, fit for a king--or a prince--wouldn’t even fit in his apartment.

_ Bruce…  _

Memories cascaded like a waterfall--like a shower. His lips curved with a reminiscent smile as he savored a particular memory. He had indeed conducted an exhaustive investigation of Bruce’s body, looking for any mark that was suggestive of his house shield. While thoroughly enjoyable, the search had been in vain, and Clark had experienced a pang of disappointment at coming up empty-handed. Ludicrous to suppose he would find any such thing, as if a mark was needed to show they were meant for each other. 

Any disappointment had been banished when Bruce declared they were a mess and needed cleaning up.  _ “Must mean we did it right.”  _ Bruce had whispered that against his ear as he wrestled him out of bed. The look in his eyes had delighted Clark, as though he had said something daring and risque and was pleased with himself for being do audacious. So much for Bruce Wayne, international playboy extraordinaire, sophisticated libertine, able to seduce his next conquest with a single glance. And thank Rao for that; Clark would have been out of his depth with that Bruce.

Clark had let himself be wrestled into the bathroom, not sure what to expect next, not at all prepared for the hedonistic surroundings he was plunged into. If he had ever wondered what Bruce’s bathroom would like, he supposed he would guessed muted colors and an overall utilitarian look. 

He could not have been more wrong.

It was black-and-white, accented with gleaming chrome. The marble tiles on the floor were heated. And the bathtub… Calling it a bathtub was inadequate. It was sunken. There were steps that led down to it. There was room enough for an orgy. It was fit for a Caesar. All it needed was a body slave to attend its master.

That thought had startled him but he couldn’t get it out of his mind. While Bruce expounded on the many virtues of the bathroom--the steam shower that could envelope you in clouds of eucalyptus-scented steam seemed to be Bruce’s favorite feature--Clark kept glancing over at that bath. Images played through his mind that might have made him blush another time. Things had changed; in one night, everything had changed…

*~* *~*

Bruce was all for the shower, and that eucalyptus steam did sound pleasant, but…

“What about the bath?”

“The bath.” Bruce looked over at it, clearly not sold on the idea. “I hardly ever use it.”

“This could be one of those times.” As he glanced over at the tub again, Clark was struck by their reflection, captured in the mirror. It startled him for a moment. Bruce might be at ease parading around without a stitch on but that degree of nonchalance didn’t come as easily for Clark. Funny, though, the more he looked, the more natural it did become.

“Like what you see?” Bruce had come up behind him, dipped his head to kiss Clark’s shoulder.

“I…Okay.” He bit his lip and ordered himself not to blush at the amused look Bruce gave him. “I don’t stand around looking at myself naked all the time.”

“You should.” Bruce traced a line of kisses along his shoulders, nuzzled the nape of his neck.

“You have heard of Narcissus, right?” He did like what he was watching now, the languid look in Bruce’s eyes, the way his movements matched that expression as he lazily stroked a hand along Clark’s chest and stomach. “Why don’t you like your bathtub?”

“I didn’t say I don’t like it.” Bruce’s fingers crept along the crease between hip and torso. Clark shivered at the feather light touch. “A shower is faster. A bath is an indulgence.”

“This whole room is a hedonist’s dream, Bruce.”

“Came with the place.” Bruce was keeping up the light touches, punctuating them with barely there kisses along his neck, between his shoulder blades. “I think  _ you  _ have a streak of hedonism in you.”

“Maybe. It’s not encouraged in Kansas.”

Bruce rested his chin on Clark’s shoulder. “Or on Krypton?”

Clark met his eyes in the mirror, shook his head. “Don’t know. Probably not.”

“A shower can be a sensual experience. All of that hot water pouring down, clouds of steam--”

“Eucalyptus-scented.”

“You have something against eucalyptus-scented? Because it may not be a concern for  _ you _ ,” Bruce tickled his belly, “but some of us find it works wonders with congestion and even reduces pain and soreness.”

He hadn’t thought about that. Contrite, he said, “Then I love eucalyptus-scented everything. Finish what you were saying.”

“Hhn.” A more familiar grumpy look met him in the mirror. “Clouds of steam?”

“Clouds of steam. And?”

“And soap,” Bruce continued, voice rough and low, “handfuls of soap that we work all over each other, rubbing into our skin, making us slippery.”

“Good picture," Clark said. Quite an enticing vision, actually, and he wavered in his resolve for a moment. Only a moment, however. "Works the same in a bathtub.”

“Entirely different choreography.”

“Hmm. Well, if you’re so eager for this being over and done in five minutes--”

“I never said that.” Bruce heaved a deep sigh, kissed his neck. “You’re dead set on the bath?”

Assuming a solemn expression, Clark nodded. “Think so, yes.”

Bruce rolled his eyes. “Fine. Don’t say I never indulge you.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Anyway, we shower together all the time.” In order to reach the tub it was necessary to disentangle from Bruce. While Clark regretted it, especially as he had gained a fresh appreciation of mirrors, he consoled himself with the knowledge they would soon be immersed in the tub.

“We do not shower together all the time.” Even as he protested, Bruce edged nearer to the tub.

“Pretty often.” Clark sat on the ledge that ran around the tub, tried to appear blasé at his nakedness, and turned the taps on. He watched as the tub began to fill. “Three weeks ago, when we fought Solomon Grundy in the swamp.”

“Yes, well, you were a swamp-drenched mess. And three weeks ago isn’t every other day.”

Clark smiled, stirred the water, checked the temperature. “You weren’t exactly smelling like a bouquet of roses.” That shower, all the showers they had shared, had been perfunctory, strictly business. This was better. “Think it’s warm enough.”

“Still say a shower would be more efficient.” Bruce was close enough to touch by then, so Clark did.

He ran his hand along Bruce’s calf, tickled the back of his knee. “Getting you to drop something is like trying to herd cats, isn’t it?” 

Bruce stared at him, unblinking. “You did want me to share the bath, right? Also, and I quote Alfred: back at you." 

“Grumpy, grumpy bat,” Clark murmured as he drew him closer.

“I’ll grumpy bat you,” Bruce grumbled, but he didn’t put up any resistance. “You’re two minutes from overflow.”

It was Clark’s turn to stare now. “What?”

“The tub.”

Clark turned to check. “Oh. Right.” He shut off the taps, checked the water temperature again. “That should be enough.” 

“So?” Bruce challenged him with a look that felt like a call back to earlier this evening, when Clark had been so determined to be cool and in command but ultimately couldn’t even get his belt unfastened. Was the challenge deliberate? A prod for him to try again?

He was glad one of them thought he had it in him. These sort of scenarios  always went so much smoother in his imagination. Was it absolutely necessary to be smooth? Ideas turning in his head, Clark eyed the products lined up along one ledge of the bath. There were assorted bottles, a neat stack of towels, and, “What’s this?” It was the color and texture of pumice, shaped a bit like a pear, and soft when he touched it.

“It’s a bamboo charcoal-activated face sponge.” 

“What does charcoal-activated mean?”

“Hell if know. Veronica Vreeland gave it to me.

“And this?” Clark picked up one of the bottles of body wash. “This product transports you to Hawaii,” he read off the label, “with a hydrating blend of oils that deliver the detoxifying virtues of chamomile and ginge--” He had been keeping watch on Bruce out of the corner of his eye and was prepared when Bruce made an exasperated grab for the bottle.

“Oops,” he said as he intercepted Bruce and--carefully--dunked him in the water.

The splash was impressive.

Drenched, Bruce came up sputtering. He shook water out of his eyes and fixed him with a look that, were he one of Gotham’s rogues, might have caused alarm. It would have been more convincing without the laughter that danced behind it. “This means war.”

Clark grinned. “Bring it on.”

He wouldn’t have predicted horseplay. Whenever he had dared to envision a night like this, all had been solemn, as those some sacred act was to be performed. There had been that earlier, moments when they were both overtaken by what was happening. On his back, Bruce moving inside him, Clark had felt it then, had felt an ineffable exaltation. He couldn’t have put it into words. He hadn’t needed to. Looking up, his eyes had locked with Bruce’s and read the same feeling there. He had felt it in every thrust, every arch of their bodies. Tasted it in the salty drops of sweat that fell on his lips.

This, as they wrestled and splashed in the bath, was nothing so profound. Sensual, though--definitely that as the frolicking gave way to the serious business of washing up. 

Clark couldn’t say the scent of the body wash transported him to a tropical paradise as Bruce soaped him up. Soaring somewhere in the region of nirvana would have to do…

**~** **~**

The area around the bath was a mess by the time they were done, water and soap suds splashed everywhere. It was worth it.

Clark had taken care of that, x-ray vision locating cleaning supplies, and a burst of speed taking care of the rest. The sheets were changed and the bed tidied up the same way, and he smiled at the memory of the look on Bruce’s face, an intriguing mix bewilderment and admiration when Clark was finished with the domestic chores. 

_ “You do have unexpected uses.” _  Bruce had made that remark when Clark informed him he had also taken the old sheets down to the laundry room and started the washer.

And thus to bed, to rest this time. Another surprise for Clark. Even in fantasies he hadn’t quite dared to imagine that he and Bruce might share a bed like this. Sex, maybe. That kind of intimacy, though, stretched out beside each other, Bruce not pulling away when Clark dared to put an arm around him, had been another revelation.

They hadn’t cuddled--but neither had Bruce issued a non-snuggling edict, so Clark thought there was cause for hope.

Actually another surprise was that Bruce had let him sleep this long. He rolled over to confirm what he had suspected the last few seconds, that Bruce was absent. No surprise. Clark reminded himself that this was new, both of them would need time to get used to the changes. He couldn’t expect to spend the morning lounging in bed with Bruce this soon. That might not ever happen. He could keep his fingers crossed, though. The world was full of possibilities this morning.

Curious as to where Bruce could be, Clark lay still and listened, other sounds tuned out as he focused in on locating Bruce’s heartbeat. That was odd. He wasn’t in the house, not even down in the Cave. Clark moved out, and a sense of apprehension began to cast a shadow over his sense of well-being as he had to search further and further. Miles away, in fact.

The beat was regular when he did find it. Calm; maybe more at rest than if he had remained here in bed.

Clark tuned out the heartbeat and sat up, uncertain but with that unease increasing exponentially. Something was wrong. 

He pushed the curtains aside and climbed off the bed, hiked up the borrowed sweats and tightened the drawstring. It was half past seven, watery sunlight streaming through the windows. Bruce could have been called out. There may have been a development on that string of Ouija board murders. If that was it, Clark hoped it wouldn’t be something Bruce would beat himself up over.

There were all sorts of reasons for Bruce to be on the other side of Gotham. None of them explained why Clark’s stomach was tying itself into knots.

A knock at the door startled him for a second, and he fumbled for his glasses as if they might be a shield against whatever was to come.

“Yes?”

“It’s Alfred Pennyworth, Mr. Kent. May I come in?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” He crossed to the door, opened it. Alfred stood there with a tray. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, sir.” Alfred bustled in, set down the tray, poured out a fragrant cup of coffee. “I thought this might tide you over until breakfast.” Alfred indicated a plate of croissants, fresh and hot from the oven, along with a bowl of strawberries and blueberries.

“Alfred…”

“Sir?” Alfred finished preparing his coffee and handed him the cup and saucer.

“Ah.” Self-conscious, unsure of himself, Clark felt like he had slammed right back into that old feeling of being on the outside looking in. “Ah,” he cleared his throat, tried again, “have you seen Bruce this morning?”

“I have.”

When it was evident Alfred would say nothing more unprompted, Clark asked, “And where is he?”

For the first time Alfred’s composure slipped. Hardly discernible, but enough for Clark’s concern to spike. When he had about given up on getting an answer, Alfred said, “Master Bruce would likely say it is not my place to share this with you. I believe you have a right to know, however.”

Clark braced himself, for what he didn’t know. It had to be bad if Alfred was concerned for him. “What?”

“He’s gone to see Mr. Constantine.”

Constantine… “But why now?” Clark set the cup and saucer down, turned to look around the room, at the bed. He shook his head, felt as staggered as if he’d just been slammed in the gut with a kryptonite sledgehammer. “Did he say why?”

“I think you know why, Mr. Kent.”

He did--he just didn’t want to believe it.

“I really thought…” He shook his head again, shoulders slumped with the new weight loaded onto them. “Did he at least leave a note?” Fat chance of that but Clark was ready to grab at any straw he could.

“I’m afraid not. Mr. Kent…” Alfred hesitated and Clark turned to look at him, watch him struggle with his conscience. Conflict resolved, Alfred continued. “Mr. Kent, if I may pose a question?”

“Of course.”

“ _ Is _  this all nothing more substantial than a magic spell?”

Clark’s response was immediate. “Of course not. Maybe magic was a kind of catalyst. It didn’t create anything that wasn’t already there.” He knew that with every fiber of his being. How could Bruce doubt it?

“Well, then,” Alfred made a minute adjustment to the cloth on the tray, “I would petition you to have some patience, keep faith in Master Bruce. His actions may sometimes be maddening but they are wrought by the best intentions.”

Clark nodded, bit back a bitter comment about where good intentions were said to lead, and tried to achieve some detachment. There  _ were _  loose ends, answers too vague for Bruce to ever be satisfied with the solution. He couldn't really expect Bruce to just drop every line of inquiry. Bruce wasn't made like that. “I’ll try.”

“No one could ask more.”

He could well be waiting in vain, but he had to know. One way or the other, he had to know. 

~*~

The Ouija Board Killer had first struck this past summer, on the summer solstice. Tanith Janicek, nineteen, had been discovered in Robinson Park, strangled and left inside a pentagram that had been scorched in the grass. A Ouija board had been dropped beside her. 

Tanith’s parents had been stoic in their grief--Bruce gave them that benefit of the doubt anyway--and only said that they had always suspected her Goth lifestyle would bring her to this kind of end. The media had latched onto that, of course, along with the Ouija board detail, and spent the summer salivating over the story. 

July passed without incident, and although the killer remained at large Gotham P.D. had relaxed its vigilance. Bruce hadn’t, not entirely, but other cases had moved to the forefront. On the night of August 1, a nightwatchman named George Merridew was found dead at the warehouse he had been guarding. The crime scene was the same in all details, with one addition: a wisp of brimstone had lingered in the air this.

Tanith Janicek had been young and pretty; her murder tailor-made to splash across the front page, lead the nightly news broadcast. George Merridew was middle-aged and black, and while the media had gathered information on him, ultimately they deemed him little more than asterisk. The difference that had struck Bruce most profoundly was that, Tanith’s family had been more concerned with what the neighbors would think than with what befell their daughter, George Merridew’s wife and children had been devastated and baffled as to how this could have happened.

The Ouija Board Killer became the lead story again when, in the early hours of September 23, joggers found the body of Samantha Taylor in a playground. Like Tanith, Samantha was young and beautiful. Where Tanith’s Goth lifestyle was used against her, Samantha’s wholesome, girl-next-door image was used to whip up fear in the public’s imagination. If this crazed killer could claim a girl like Samantha Taylor for his Satanic rites, was anyone safe?

Bruce had moved the case back to top priority with George Merridew’s death. He and Jim had pursued leads, thought they were making progress, thought they at least had the timeline nailed down and would have until October 31 before the killer would strike again. Plenty of time to lay hands on the perp--plenty of time if leads had panned out, if they hadn’t wound up mostly spinning their wheels.

The murder of Fergus Duncan, age thirty-two, member of a local paranormal society, had thrown Bruce’s calculations out the window and unleashed a feeding frenzy in the media.

Grandview Memorial Gardens was one of the oldest cemeteries in Gotham. Long abandoned, choked with weeds and grass gone wild, and crowded with trees that dropped their leaves in wind-stirred drifts piled against crumbling stone walls and memorials, it could have been the original avatar of the creepy, haunted graveyard. On a day like this, when last night’s rain had left everything sodden, cold fog creeping in off the bay and drifting along the ground, it was easy to believe the urban legends, the stories of restless spirits that wandered its grounds.

Small wonder Fergus Duncan had come out here on the sixteenth, the night of the Blood Moon, to look for ghosts. When he didn’t return, friends had called GCPD to report him missing. 

Unlike the previous victims, Fergus hadn’t been strangled. He had been discovered on a makeshift altar made of headstones, once again surrounded by a pentagram. His throat had been cut, his body eviscerated--a scorched and battered Ouija board found nearby. No smell of sulfur this time, but Bruce had found one curious thing: crystals of rock salt scattered in the grass, as if someone had grabbed handfuls and thrown it.

Thrown at who? At what?

If Constantine could offer some pointers on that, Bruce welcomed him.

Parked in a lane across from the cemetery, shadowed by tall hedgerows, Bruce nudged his car forward, and pulled up behind Jim Gordon’s unmarked police car. He reached for the flowers he had picked up and got out of the car, buttoning his coat up against the damp chill.

Stepping around puddles of rain, he entered the cemetery. Jim and Constantine would be over by a mausoleum that housed five generations of the Doherty family. The killer had chosen that spot for the murder of Fergus Duncan. Was the choice random? Bruce hadn’t gathered enough data to call it yet.

The rain had left the ground sodden, so no worries that a rustle of dry grass might give him away before he was ready. He picked his spot, a grave just a couple of yards from the mausoleum, shrouded by the branches of a willow. He could see them, two trench coated figures without much else in common.

He knelt by the grave of Rex Chandler Cornell, 1911 - 1965  _ I Knew if I Waited Around Long Enough Something like This Would Happen.  _ Difficult to get a sense of someone from a quote like that, Bruce thought as he placed the flowers on the grave, then knelt as though in contemplation as he tried to pick up some of what Jim and Constantine were saying.

_ “You should have called me in sooner, Commissioner. I suppose  _ _ he  _ _ argued against it, thought he could handle it on his own?” _

_ “Well, you know what he’s like.” _

_ “Control freak? Thinks he knows better than everyone else?” _

_ “He usually does.” _

_ “Not this time, Commissioner. He’s out of his depths on this one--you all are.” _

_ “That’s why I called you in.” _

_ “He know you did?” _

_ “No, not yet. I’ll tell him tonight” _

Hhn. No mystery about who they were talking about, Bruce thought. He suppressed a twinge of annoyance that they already sounded chummy. None of his business; and antagonizing Constantine would accomplish nothing.

Anyway, it didn't matter which of them would turn out to be right about the killer. Only that the killer was stopped before they struck again.

Jim and Constantine were moving now, headed this way. Bruce made a show of getting to his feet just as they reached him.

“Mr. Wayne?” Jim stopped in his tracks, expression difficult to read. Equal parts exasperation and disconcerted? “What brings you out here?”

“Oh--Commissioner Gordon. What a surprise!” It took more of an effort than usual to slip on his Brucie mask. “I was just paying my respects to old Cousin Rex here.” He patted the weathered headstone again as he studied the other two men. Jim looked tired, a few more strands of gray in his hair. Jim Gordon could take most of Gotham’s crime in stride, achieve the right degree of professional detachment. Murders like this moved things into another realm, with the public as on edge as though Scarecrow had sprizted everyone with a modest dose of fear toxin. There had already been incidents of Goths being harassed, attacked. How much worse would it get before they brought in the killer? Jim would weather it, he always did. That didn't keep Bruce from wanting to lighten the burden if he could.

If Constantine, standing there looking like he’d spent the night on a park bench, could help ease the strain, all the better.

“Cousin Rex?” Jim pushed up his glasses. 

“My mother’s great-uncle’s fifth cousin,” Bruce said, vapid smile in place now. 

“I see.”

“Knew him well?” Constantine asked. He had edged over to give the inscription a good look.

“Before my time, actually,” Bruce continued in affable mode. “Ronnie Vreeland’s got me doing an ancestry scrapbook, though, so I’ve been stumbling across all sorts of relatives I never heard of before. Seemed the thing to come pay my respects to Cousin Rex here.” He peered vacantly at Constantine. “Do you know Ronnie Vreeland?”

“Haven’t had the pleasure, I’m afraid.” Constantine struck a match against the headstone and applied it to the cigarette the dangled from a corner of his mouth.

Jim didn’t roll his eyes. He looked like he wanted to, though. “Forgive my manners, Mr. Wayne,” he said with the air of man who had about had it up to  _ there _  with everyone by now. “Mr. Wayne, this is John Constantine, a special consultant to the Gothan P.D.. Mr. Constantine, this is Gotham’s most generous philanthropist, Bruce Wayne.”

“Always a pleasure to meet a friend of the GCPD,” Bruce said, hand held out in greeting.

Constantine exhaled a puff of smoke, shook Bruce’s hand. “Pleasure’s mine.”

Bruce flicked a suspicious look at him, then turned to Jim. “This isn’t about those terrible Ouija board murders, is it, Commissioner?” He shuddered, glanced over his shoulder as though the killer might even now be poised to spring out.

“Actually, it is, Mr. Wayne.” Jim’s ability to maintain a straight face never failed to impress Bruce. “Mr. Constantine here has a special skill set we think could be of help in finding who’s responsible.”

“Well, I do hope he can help. Gives a person the willies thinking this fiend could turn up anywhere.” 

“If it’s any consolation, Bruce,” Constantine said, “I don’t think we’re looking a fiend.”

“No? Who else could commit crimes like these?” His Brucie mask was in danger of slipping. He wasn’t sure he cared. “What has The Batman had to say on the matter, Commissioner?”

Jim did almost roll his eyes this time. In lieu of that, he took off his glasses to polish the lenses. “It’s my belief we’re dealing with an amateur, a wannabe. Whether,” Jim cleared his throat, put his glasses back on, “Batman concurs or not is for him to say. I’m sure you won’t quote me, Mr. Wayne.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, sir.” So Jim still wouldn’t budge from that particular idea. Bruce couldn’t say the theory was flawed, more that it was incomplete and didn’t go far enough. “And you, Mr. Constantine?”

“Can’t say just yet. But I’ll tell you this, Bruce, we’d better hope Commissioner Gordon has it wrong. If it is an amateur fucking around our job’s going to be that much harder.”

“Because of the salt?”

Jim gave him a ill-humored look. “And what would you know about salt, Mr. Wayne?”

Bruce tried to look chagrined; he doubted his success. “Didn’t I read something about that in the papers?”

“I sincerely doubt it.”

“Don’t be too hard on the lad, Commissioner,” Constantine said as he propped himself against a moss-covered angel that had seen better days. “He’s probably watched too many episodes of  _ Supernatural _ .”

Bruce really might have to hurt him later.

“He’s right about the salt, though,” Constantine went on. “Tells us a lot about our bloodthirsty little pillock that he brought a sack of it along and starting flinging it at whatever he called forth.” He gave Bruce another amused look. “You’ll keep that between the three of us, right?”

“Wouldn’t dream of breathing a word.” Bruce made the promise with every sign of sincerity. He was really starting to worry about Jim’s blood pressure, though. “Well, I should let you go, Commissioner.”

“You go on ahead, Commissioner,” Constantine said. “I’d like to have another look at the crime scene. Might spot something out caped friend missed.” He aimed a smirk at Bruce. “Maybe Bruce here could give me a lift back to the city.”

“Yes, I’m sure he could. Well, I’ll leave you to it, Mr. Constantine. Mr. Wayne,” Jim nodded at him, “good luck with that scrapbooking.” He walked away muttering something about the goddamn maniacs he had to put up with on this job.

“So.” Once Jim was out of sight, Constantine placed two fingers against his temple. “Wait, don’t tell me. I’m getting something.” He frowned in fake concentration. “I’m seeing you and a big fella--favors primary colors. You’ve been having strange experiences, wondering if maybe a wicked witch has put a curse on you?”

Bruce waster a scowl on him. “How did you know?”

“Magic finds a way…”


	5. "Five"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read the end notes.

“Magic finds a way. Never fails in my experience.” Constantine curved his hands around his coffee cup to warm them. “So Morgaine put a drop of secret sauce in her potion, did she? How’s it manifest?”

They were stopped in a greasy spoon diner on the outskirts of Gotham. It was half past ten and the sun was still only a vague suggestion in the sky with clouds building up with a threat of snow later. That struck Bruce as the perfect conclusion to this day. 

All he needed now was to discover Morgaine’s real kicker was a Groundhog’s Day spell, so that he would have to relive the last twenty-four hours over and over and over.

Work and duty often took him to cemeteries. Reason enough to have a dislike of them, to be conscious of a morbid atmosphere that lingered about them. Bruce had never felt that quite so profoundly as he did at Grandview, forced to linger there as Constantine took another look at the crime scene.

“Never underestimate the importance of ambiance, Bruce,” Constantine had said as they walked around the Doherty mausoleum. “Our Voldemort wannabe picked this place for a reason. Mark my words,” he tapped his knuckles against the edifice, the weather worn stone grown mossy, tangled in vines and choked with weeds, “you do some research, you’ll discover this isn’t the first time this place has seen dark deeds done. What do we know about these Doherty’s?”

“Not a lot.” Bruce had fought the urge to glance over his shoulder, tried to ignore the feeling that they were being watched by something malevolent hidden in the shadows. It was just that kind of place. “The line dies out in the nineteen-sixties. They were a prosperous family with some influence in the community. A few business dealings with the Waynes.” Bruce raised his shoulders in a modest shrug. No connection had struck him as suspect, no detail had popped as something to pursue further. “Their house is still standing, more or less.”

Constant fiddled with the padlock that secured the door, cast him an interested look. “Anyone living there? Squatters, maybe?”

“Rats and urban raccoons. No sign of human habitation.”

“You checked?”

Bruce gave him a look eloquent with his reply.

“Tetchy, tetchy,” Constantine murmured. “Don’t suppose you’d have any of those fascinating doodads and gadgets on you right now?”

“We’re not breaking into this mausoleum. There’s no sign anything has been disturbed.”

Constantine looked like he was about to put up an argument. His expression transformed into a knowing one, backed up with a smirk. “You’ve already peeked inside.”

Bruce shrugged again.

Hands buried in his trench coat pockets, Constantine stood back from the mausoleum. His gaze traveled over it, all around the surrounding area. “I’ll tell you this,” he said, something uncanny in his manner, “there’s something in the air here. Something was here that should never walk the earth.”

“A demon?” Bruce didn’t stumble over the word. That didn’t mean it came easily to his tongue. He doubted any of this ever would. “That’s the brimstone?”

Constantine shook his head, not in denial, more that he was turning things over in his mind. “Could be,” he said, half to himself. “There’s worse things than demons out in the darkness, though.”

“Cheerful thought,” Bruce muttered to himself, his own gaze probing the shadows, every rustle of  a branch.

“Welcome to my world.” Giving up on the mausoleum for the time being, Constantine circled the pentagram scorched into the earth, what remnants remained. “You’ve worked out the significance of the dates, right?”

“Summer Solstice, Autumnal Equinox.” Bruce nodded.

“Lammas.” Constantine stopped at the top of the pentagram, squatted down to trace a finger along the edges of the two points of the star that blackened the earth. “The sixteenth, when our Fergus was sacrificed, was the blood moon. The killer took that a bit literal.” Constantine stood up, brushed off his hands.

“You want proof this git doesn’t know bollocks about what he’s doing?” Constantine pointed at the pentagram. “No one with any brains tries to summon a demon in the first place. But if they do, they damn well make sure the pentagram’s not inverted like this, and that the circle’s perfect.” Jim would have shown him the crime scene photos, the ones that revealed a raggedly chalked circle, the end not quite connecting with the start of the circle. “Our maniac’s lucky whatever he summoned didn’t eat him.”

“Hence the salt.” Bruce pictured the scene that may have played out here, if Constantine had it right. Fergus Duncan sprawled out on the altar, still alive when the knife had struck. Had there been chanting, smoke billowing up as if from Hell, some fire-eyed demonic being called forth? He hunched his shoulders and turned his collar up against an icy breeze. “Are we sure it didn’t eat him?”

“Find any offal flung about? Mind, some of these beasties like the offal best.”

Bruce gave him another look fluent with unsaid words.

Constantine shrugged, unrepentant.

“The only blood belonged to the victim. And why are you so certain it’s a man?”

“Don’t know a lot of women who dabble in the occult arts who are also dumb as stumps.” Constantine turned his collar up as well. “Can we get the hell out of here?”

Bruce had no objection. The case review had provided a welcome distraction. He would bury himself in it, in all his work, after this. Cut his ties to the League. Nightwing could take his place, consult with him if necessary. He had it all worked out. The only detail still up in the air was Constantine.

Arrived at the diner, though, and with the place largely to themselves, Bruce had to squash his impatience to get on with it, be done with it now. Constantine would get there in his own sweet time. Bruce was the last one who could fault him for wanting ti gather all the evidence before proceeding.

Bruce had added a few things up himself, however. “You knew there was more to the curse when you reversed it.”

“Had a suspicion.” Indifferent to the NO SMOKING notices, Constantine lit up another cigarette. At a pointed look from Bruce he shrugged, and indicated the ashtray set out with the usual assortment of salt and pepper shakers, napkin dispenser, sugar, straws, and condiment packets. “Why’d they put that there if we’re not meant to use it, then?”

Bruce stared harder and Constantine crushed out the cigarette after another moment.

“Okay. All right.” Constantine slumped down in the booth, wearing vexation like robes of state. “Look, there was a lot going on that night. Lifting the spell on you and the Boy Scout wasn’t even top priority.” He spread his hands. “I did a rush job, didn’t stop to think about our Morgaine having a nasty sense of humor.”

“Hhn.” Bruce accepted that--barely. Something else occurred to him. “What about Klarion--could there be a connection to the murders?”

“Is the Witch Boy behind them, you mean?” Constantine shook his head. “Not his style, I’d think. Not to mention the murders’d already started when he got up to his mischief.” Constantine frowned, squinted out the grimy window at the traffic going by. “He could’ve used it, though, come to think of it.”

“Used it how?” Bruce took a sip of his coffee, pulled a face at the taste, like boiled down tar, and pushed the cup aside.

“The kind of magic this idiot’s fucking around with, it stirs things up, charges up the atmosphere. The Witch Boy could have tapped into that, siphoned off enough power for him to bring Morgaine across. It’s an idea.” He looked back at Bruce. “You haven’t answered my question. How has Morgaine’s kick in the arse shown itself?”

Bruce didn’t want to tell him. He didn’t want to share any of this. Forced to reveal even the most incidental detail ate at him. Every moment had been so immensely intimate that it felt like a desecration to speak of it to anyone. Had Morgaine meant that as one more turn of the screw? Perhaps it was only an unforeseen bonus for her, he thought, mouth twisted in a bitter smile.

“Look, I get you’d rather stick your head in a wood chipper than talk about this.” Somber now, Constantine gave him a look of unexpected empathy. “You have to give me something to work with, mate.”

Bruce released a pent up breath, nodded. He cast a quick look around the diner. Other than a couple of truckers down at the far end of the counter, schmoozing with the waitress, they were alone in here. Even so… “Look, let’s take this back to the car,” he said. 

“You don’t want to try the Ptomaine Special?” Constantine sighed when Bruce just looked at him again. “Fine, fine.” He climbed out of the booth as Bruce placed a twenty on the table before leading the way out.

Settled in the car again, hands wrapped around the steering wheel, he said, “The first indication was a message that appeared on my hand, the way you would jot down a phone number in a hurry. I didn’t write it, though.”

“It was the big fella?” Constantine nodded to himself. “Same body part?”

Bruce nodded.

“Reversed mirror image?”

“No, it’s identical.”

Constantine whistled. “Soul marks. How about that? Morgaine didn’t see  _ that _  one coming, I’ll bet you.”

“What? What’s a soul mark?” Bruce asked. His thoughts drifted to last night for an instant, to when he had found Clark’s birthmark. He slammed the door shut on the memory.

Constantine shrugged. “Fate meet Destiny.”

“But it’s fake.”

Dawning enlightenment lit Constantine’s face and he scootched around to face Bruce. “Fake? No such thing as a fake soul mark.  _ That’s _  what you’re on about? You want me to make it go away? Wouldn’t if I could.”

“What does that mean?”

“What I said--magic finds a way. If something happened,” Constantine waited for confirmation, continued without it, “that proves it was meant to happen.”

“It can’t.”

“Why? Because you’re not worthy?” Constantine shook his head in commiseration. “Can’t look at it that way. Look at it that way, nobody’s worthy, not of him.”

Bruce had wanted to keep this as impersonal as possible, couch it in abstract terms. Constantine was making that impossible. “There was no choice. It…took away his consent.”

“Took away his… Oh for crying out loud.” Constantine buried his face in his hands for a second. When he looked up again, his expression was that of man dealing with a simpleton who was trying his patience. It was disconcerting to be on the other end of that kind of look. “That’s what you’re thinking? You’ve got it all worked out how this is no different than Poison Ivy and her sex pollen?”

“It is exactly the same.” That’s what had hammered away for his attention, only able to break through in the early hours of the morning once the first wave had passed. Bruce had experienced the effects of Poison Ivy’s pollen. It stripped away control, rendered consent impossible. “Magic compelled him just as surely as the pollen would.”

The way Constantine looked at him, head tilted just a bit, calculations going on behind his eyes, made Bruce wonder if he could have phrased that differently.

“Compelled  _ him _ , did it? But not you?”

“I only meant…” Would smacking his head against the steering wheel help? Probably not; still tempting, though. “Look, magic effects him differently. When he sucked down the toxic smoke Morgaine sent out to get me, it nearly killed him.”

Constantine was staring at him wide-eyed now, about as flabbergasted as Bruce had ever seem him. Somehow that was not reassuring. “He did what again?”

“Alfred told you.”

“Alf told me a lot of things. That wasn’t one of them.”

“How does it matter?”

“How does it matter?” Constantine muttered this into hands, face hidden there once more. “Okay, back up some more. The big fella, he’s not immune to magic?”

“No. You know that.”

“I know it. I never gave a lot of thought to what it could mean.” Constantine looked like he was considering smashing his own head against the dashboard. When Bruce would have said something, Constantine held up a hand. “Don’t talk. Let me think.”

So that’s what it felt like.

Bruce watched out the windshield, craned his neck when he thought he saw a blur of red and blue streak across the sky. Might have been an optical illusion. If it wasn’t, what else could he expect? It was what he wanted, after all. And so what if it felt like a hollow pit had just opened in his stomach?

“Okay, all right.” Constantine looked at him. “Let’s try it this way. Tell me what  _ you  _ think happened. Morgaine went all ‘Abracadabra alakazam, make Batman fall in love with Superman?’”

Bruce tightened his hands on the steering wheel. “You do know there a hundred ways I can hurt you just sitting here in the car?”

“Yeah, and I can turn you into a toad.”

“You can’t turn me into a toad.”

“For you, I’d figure it out.” Constantine shifted around, reached for his cigarettes, grumbled something as he left them in his pocket. “You came looking for me. Do we do this or not?”

Bruce grumbled himself, then squared his shoulders. Constantine was right. “Yes, something like that.”

“And…?”

“And it was meant to be a joke. A nasty one.” For who could ever learn to love a beast. He had caught hold of it all right then. All he failed to do was carry it further. “Clark changed it somehow, got caught in the spell.”

Fingers tapping against the dashboard, Constantine nodded. “Okay, not bad. You only got it half wrong.”

Teeth gritted--not quite literally--Bruce asked, “What did I get wrong?”

“See? Admitting you don’t know everything won’t kill you.” Constantine spoke blithely enough but hurried on to his answer before Bruce could react. “I don’t know how our friend from Krypton works but I’d hazard a guess he converts energy. Solar power charges him up so he can do all those wonderful things he does. The radiation from kryptonite disrupts his systems. Magic…” His fingers kept up a steady tattoo against the dashboard, a rhythm suggestive of tapping out a song, as Constantine mused to himself. “Magic is energy. That’s why expending it leaves us depleted afterward. He converts energy… Transforms it?” He turned a curious look on Bruce.

“I… Yes. Maybe. As far as anyone knows.” Alfred may have been flippant about Clark coming with a user’s manual but in all seriousness something like that would come in handy. Even the all mighty Jor-El had not foreseen everything his son would encounter.

“Probably one of the reasons Luthor’s always after him, to do a spot of vivisection and find out how he works.”

This time when Bruce turned a lethal look on him, Constantine winced. “Not helping.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m thinking this out as a I go, mate. Really wish someone had told me about him inhaling the smoke.” Nodding to himself, Constantine went on in the same way, as if they had all the time in the world. “Morgaine wouldn’t know that. Couldn’t. No way she factored it in when she put her whammy on you.” He focused on Bruce again, eyes sharp now. “Did he expel the smoke?”

“Yes. It was like he was vomiting it out.” 

“And you got it full force after that?”

Bruce confirmed that as well. He started to have an inkling of where this was going. He didn’t see how it would help.

Constantine snapped his fingers and looked like he might shout  _ Eureka _ ! “There’s your answer, then.”

“ _ What’s _  my answer?” What was even the question by now?

“Morgaine put a sleeping spell on you. That was part one, just to put you out of commission, take you out of the game for a spell--no pun intended. She had to known one us of from the magical contingent would fix that--me, Blood, Zatanna. That’s why she put in a hidden curse, one that would be triggered when you woke up and fell head over heals, no turning back in love with the first person you saw.”

Constantine was talking faster now, confidence in his voice and body language as he worked out the final points. It was everything Bruce had expected. He had braced himself to hear it. But not enough. His hands tightened on the steering wheel again, knuckles white with it, every word from Constantine leaving him shredded. “And?”

“And,” Constantine blew out a sigh, “then you would succumb to a wasting curse that would make you pine away and die of unrequited love. You have to give her that much, she is meticulous.”

“Glad you’re enjoying it.” Bruce made no attempt to disguise the bitterness that was eating through him like acid. “How long do I have?”

Constantine blinked, stared at him, nonplussed as though Bruce had spoken in Old High Martian. “How long do you have until what?”

“Until I waste away and die.” Another thought occurred to him, far more horrific. “What about Clark? Will that part of the curse harm him?”

“Oh, for pity’s sake,” Constantine moaned into his hands, his face buried there once more. He peeked at Bruce between his fingers. “I’d have better luck talking to a brick wall.”

“Answer the goddamn question.”

Constantine growled his own frustration. “Nobody’s dying, you great fuckwit. Not him, not you--not unless he strangles you, for which no court in the land would convict him.” He sat up then, looking just about done. “The curse was transmuted when Clark sucked in the smoke and then coughed it out again. He must be like some bloody living, breathing Philosopher’s Stone--and don’t ever let that get out or he’ll have worse than Lex Luthor coming for him.”

“That still doesn’t tell me anything.”

“Because you’re not fucking listening. It turned into a True Love spell, the most powerful magic there is. That’s what the soul marks are about, getting your attention.”

“Even if that’s true--” Constantine turned a glare on him fierce enough Bruce expected his eyes to glow. He forged on, nonetheless. “It doesn’t change anything. He didn’t have a choice.”

“Newsflash: That’s how love works. Nobody has a choice. That’s why it’s called sparks and chemistry.”

“I don’t need a lecture on love.” Bruce ground the words out, reminding himself he had sought this out. He had come in search of answers. He hadn’t expected to like them, so nothing was changed.

Constantine slouched down again. “Could have fooled me. You run this past him, by the way? Or is it one of your unilateral, Batman knows what’s best for everyone decisions?”

Since he couldn’t deny that, and wasn’t about to confirm it, Bruce remained silent.

“Yeah, that’s what I reckoned,” Constantine said, arriving at his own conclusions. “Look, mate,” he skewed around to face Bruce, somber for once, “I’ll bottom line this for you, and then for the love of all that’s holy we will drop it and be done. A True Love spell is nothing like what Miss Poison Ivy gets up to. A True Love spell, whether it’s your fairy godmother going bibiddi-bobbidi-boo and sprinkling fairy dust, or your mum and dad bumping into each other at the ball, it’s the real deal, meant to be. The soul marks prove that. They never would have shown up otherwise. Now, you can get a second opinion from Zatanna or Jason but I guarantee they’ll tell you the same. Pester Doctor Fate about it, fate being his particular bailiwick and all.” He spread his hands to demonstrate he was done with it. “I wash my hands.”

“But--”

“As the gods are my witness, I will turn you into the wartiest toad in the world and drop you in the most dismal swamp I can find, and  _ if  _ I’m feeling generous one day I’ll tell Clark where to find you.”

“Toads don’t live in swamps.”

“I am warning you--”

“Fine.” Bruce turned the key in the ignition. “Where are we going?”

“Besides to hell in a handbasket?” Constantine shrugged. “Drop me by Jason’s. Maybe he has a potion I can use to wash this all out of my brain.”

Bruce didn’t dignify that with a reply.

~*~

_ “Master Richard and Miss Barbara have collected Master Damian. They said this had been cleared with you. Something about telling him they needed him for an undercover op at the  _ _ Disney On Ice show _ _? I gather this is a ruse to get him to agree to go to the show. As this is my night off, I shall be taking Dr. Thompkins to  _ _ see  _ _ Guys and Dolls _ _. Apparently it’s her favorite.  _ _ There is food in the refrigerator. All you have to do is heat it up. Not that I expect you to bother. Don’t wait up.” _

Bruce smiled and shook his head as Alfred’s message concluded. He was glad someone had a life. 

He turned off his voice mail and paced over to the floor-to-ceiling windows of his office. It was one of the best views in Gotham, right across the city, lights coming on now as the sun sank, and straight on across the bay. On a clear night, it was possible to see a faint glow in the distance as Metropolis lit up for the night.

This was not a clear night. The threat of snow had failed to materialize but there was still a steady drizzle of rain. He tracked one drop as it spattered against the glass and trickled downwards.

It had been a long, long day and he still wasn’t any closer to a decision. Since he had gone along with Constantine to see Jason Blood, Bruce had taken the opportunity to get a second opinion. Without going into details, he had casually mentioned having come across some reference to soul marks and wondered what that meant. Jason had confirmed Constantine’s version--while a smug Constantine looked on. 

He had put it all on hold at that point, leaving the two of them to hash out theories on the Ouija Board Killer while he put in some time at the office. Attending to business had been a welcome distraction and kept him well occupied for the rest of the day.

Now, though, he had circled right back to where he’d been in the morning--albeit armed with a lot more knowledge. What even were his options at this point? Clark was back in Metropolis by now, probably scrambling to meet some deadline at the  _ Daily Planet  _ after a busy day of being Superman around the globe. Live news reports had confirmed Clark was not patiently waiting for him back at the Manor anyway.

It was a thousand kinds of ludicrous no doubt, but when he had played his messages just now he had expected there to be at least one from Clark. There hadn’t been any, and Bruce had no idea what to make of that. 

Had Clark been relieved to find him gone this morning? Welcomed the opportunity to put this all behind him and move on? Or was he waiting on Bruce to…do something? It would have helped a lot if Clark simply appeared, hovering in the air outside the rain-streaked windows. If nothing else, that never failed to be an impressive sight.

He wasn’t there, though, and Bruce still didn’t have an answer.

He was never going to like the idea that magic, even benign magic, made the decision for him, for both of them. And if neither of them ever made a move? He could see that playing out, them forever drawn to each other, circling each other in an orbit of futility that neither could break out of. That wasn’t entirely true, though.  _ Clark _  would break free at some point. Bruce would be the one cast into the frozen, outer darkness; Pluto forever denied the Sun.

Maybe Constantine was right. Maybe he was a complete and total fuckwit. God knew he felt like one right now.

~*~

A handful of useless takeout menus tossed in the trash, Clark checked the refrigerator for something more appetizing The pickings were, as they said, slim. Two slices of cold pizza from… Three days ago? Four? Leftover cartons of Chinese food growing fur on top. A carton of milk with maybe a tablespoon left to slosh around inside. And half of a BLT sandwich from lunch yesterday. The freezer yielded nothing better, not even ice cream, and the cupboards were equally bare except for some crackers and instant coffee. He really needed to go to the grocery store. 

What he wanted to do was fly home and have his mother’s meatloaf with mashed potatoes and gravy, and apple pie for dessert. If this wasn’t a time for comfort food, then Clark didn’t know what would qualify. There would be questions, though, ones he couldn’t answer. He wasn’t prepared for that conversation. Not until he knew where things stood.

Anger would have been easy. Satisfying for a brief flicker of time. Then what? There was no one to blame. He couldn’t claim to be surprised that Bruce had acted this way. He had known that if this ever happened everything about it would be complicated. That wasn’t all on Bruce; he brought his own set of baggage with him. He had waited this long; he could bide his time awhile more. If only-- But no: he banished that thought as fast as it tumbled through his mind. The road of what-if was a dead end, a bleak and lonely one.

Decided on that, he also voted in favor of the sandwich and a cup of instant coffee, and put the kettle on. While the water was boiling, he took a bite of the BLT and started a shopping list. He had jotted down milk, bread, eggs, and cheese, and the kettle had just started to whistle when his doorbell rang.

He wasn’t expecting anyone and the people most likely to drop by unannounced, Lois and Jimmy, were currently on assignment in Corto Maltese. He turned off the gas burner and tipped down his glasses to have a quick peek.

Damn. He wasn’t ready for this after all. He didn’t know what it meant but he was positive he wasn’t ready.

The doorbell buzzed again. Somehow it managed to sound impatient and cranky.

He could ignore it, pretend he wasn’t home. He could literally fly far, far away in the blink of an eye. He did none of those. Instead he went to the door and opened it.

“What would you have done if I hadn’t answered?”

“Picked the lock and let myself in.”

That’s what he’d figured.

So…

“Are you going to ask me to come in?”

That  _ was _  the question.

The staring contest might have continued indefinitely if Mrs. Aaronovitch hadn’t had to take her Corgis, Victoria and Albert, out for a walk. As the trio passed in the hall, everybody eyed each other, and Clark nodded a greeting to Mrs. Aaronovitch. She side-eyed Bruce, nodded back at Clark, and gave Victoria’s leash a tug when the dog wanted to stay and have a good sniff of the visitor.

Clark stood back so Bruce could come inside, and shut the door behind them.

If he had expected explanations and apologies would be offered up on the spot, he would have been disappointed. As he had tried to anticipate nothing, Clark was content to settle down on his couch and wait while Bruce prowled his apartment. That Bruce was here at all had to be significant. One way or another, all was about to be revealed. At the moment, for all intents and purposes, Bruce had come over for the sole purpose of appraising Clark’s apartment.

After he handed Clark his coat--Clark draped it over the back of a chair--Bruce started in the small kitchen. The container of instant coffee was picked up and subjected to an intense examination. When Bruce put it down again, he handled it in much the same way Clark would a chunk of kryptonite. The half a BLT sandwich received only a cursory glance.

The refrigerator was subjected to a brief scrutiny, as were the cupboards. The door to his bedroom was cracked open for a moment and as quickly shut again. Back in the living room, Clark’s furniture--a collection of unpretentious shabby chic without the usual price tag--seemed to meet with approval. His collection of DVDs and CDs caused no reaction, and a thoughtful finger was run across the spines of several books. One, a beautifully bound and illustrated edition of  _ The Count of Monte Cristo _ , was removed for a closer examination.

Clark supposed Bruce might have some empathy for Edmond  Dantès , driven to become the mysterious and powerful Count of Monte Cristo to exact revenge. Beyond that, it offered him no clue. He did recognize stalling tactics when he saw them, however. With Bruce they apparently took the form of playing Sherlock Holmes. He wondered if Bruce would treat him to a series of deductions before getting to the point of all this. 

Another moment and Bruce returned the book to its place. A sense of resolve began to settle over him as well. Zero hour was fast approaching then.

To this point Bruce had only shot him the occasional glance. Now he faced him straight on, to all appearances the embodiment of cool composure, elegant and possessed of unassailable confidence. Appearances, Clark suspected, were not to be trusted.

Inner turmoil calmed at last, Bruce crossed the room and sat down beside Clark on the couch. “What’s this?” He picked up a book splayed open on the coffee table and read the title-- _ We Came From Outer Space: Panspermia and the Origins of Life on Earth _ . “Any good?” he asked as he flipped through the pages, pausing to read notes Clark had scribbled in the margins.

“Intriguing idea anyway. I’m scheduled to interview the author, Arthur Isaacs, on Friday. Thought it would be a good idea to be prepared.”

“Hhn. Looks like you’re only halfway through.”

“There have been a few distractions.”

Bruce shot him another look and laid the book down. “You don’t actually drink that stuff, do you?” He nodded in the direction of the kitchen and the offensive carton of instant coffee.

“Bruce--”

“I went to see Constantine.”

“I heard.”

This time Bruce favored him with a more familiar grumpy look. “Alfred’s an old gossip.”

“He asked me to wait and give you a chance to explain.”

“Oh.” For a split second Bruce looked as startled as Clark had ever seen him. “Even so.” Hunched forward, he reached for the Rubik’s Cube that served as a paperweight and began twisting it. “I had to be sure of things.”

“And are you?” Clark wanted to take the Rubik’s Cube away from him before he got it all out of alignment. If it helped him bleed off nervous energy, though, so be it.

“No.” Bruce put down the Rubik’s Cube and sank back against the couch cushions. He picked up a throw pillow and hugged it to him and didn’t even notice it had Batman’s logo all over it. “If we do this, everything changes. I’ve had almost thirty years to get used to the paparazzi being after me, tabloid media pouncing on the most innocuous tidbit and next thing you know it’s gone viral that I’m having a hot affair with the barista at Starbucks because I complimented her on my macchiato and smiled. The world knows Superman, but Clark Kent has managed to fly under everyone’s radar. They will be all over this. They will descend on Smallville and harass your mother and try to dig up any dirt they can find. You’ll be accused of being a gold digger only after my money. Or a publicity whore who wants to advance his career. And the twenty-four news cycle will speculate on what kind of prenup I’ll make you sign, and if this will impact Wayne Enterprises in an adverse way. And absolutely  _ none  _ of that will compare to the interrogation my kids will put you through. They will put the Spanish Inquisition to shame. Damian can probably get his hands on kryptonite. So.” Through all of this, Bruce had kept his gaze trained on the coffee table. Now he looked at Clark.

Clark knew he was staring goggle-eyed throughout this astonishing monologue. He tried to collect his thoughts now. “So you’ve given this some thought.”

Bruce glared back at him and grunted. Perhaps his daily quota of words had been exhausted. He had discovered the pillow’s Batman motif by now and changed the glare into a look that questioned Clark’s taste.

“Prenup? How did we get to prenups?” There were a lot of things Clark could say; that was the first one that popped into his head.

“Don’t fairy tales usually end with an implication of happily ever after married bliss?”

“So,” Clark’s eyebrows drew towards each other as he worked through Bruce’s  speech, “was that a proposal?”

Bruce’s glower intensified. “Did it sound like a proposal?”

“It  _ sounded _  like you just had a thousand milligrams of caffeine.”

Bruce grumbled something not quite unintelligible. Clark picked out something that sounded like ‘fuckwit,’ but it was difficult to determine which of them this was directed at. 

“So, umm, you like macchiatos?”

Bruce turned an incredulous look on him. “That’s your chief takeaway from all that?”

“My chief takeaway is that you may have a tenuous grip on your marbles right now--”

“Got that right,” Bruce muttered under his breath.

“I just didn’t think you liked macchiatos.”

“Once in a blue moon I allow myself a modest indulgence.”

“I see.” Clark nodded to himself, seeing a bit too much, perhaps.

As though sensing that, Bruce looked at him, really looked at him, searching his eyes for revelations. “What do you see?”

“That’s what last night was, a modest indulgence?”

“Clark…” Bruce’s eyes were shadowed with sorrow, with old grief and hopes that had died too many times. “Last night was a lot of things, modest isn’t one of them. I--” He blinked, banished the lonely ghosts, and reached over to touch Clark’s face, brush a stray curl off his forehead. “I don’t want you to be one of my regrets. I don’t want last night to be a once in a blue moon thing.”

“But you’re not proposing?” Clark wasn’t sure how he would feel about that, it wasn’t something he had let himself consider. It was good to be clear on these things, though.

Bruce narrowed his eyes at him, a tendril of exasperation creeping back. “When I propose you will be in no doubt as to my intentions.”

Yes, Clark imagined that was true. “You’re good with magic making it happen, then?”

Bruce pulled another face--but his fingers kept up their feather-light caress along Clark’s jaw. “I’m not good with it but I accept it. It’s that or Constantine beats me half to death with his crystal ball.”

“I didn’t know John used a crystal b--” Clark couldn’t get the rest of it out because Bruce chose that instant to shut him up with a kiss. This was in no way disagreeable and he let himself be pressed back against the cushions. If kissing were an Olympic sport, Clark had no doubt Bruce would own the world’s record in gold medal. This idea had been taken root last night and flourished again now as Bruce turned all his attention to kissing him so thoroughly he would beg to be taken to bed now, right this very moment. One more brush of Bruce’s tongue against his, the tip teasing the roof of his mouth, and every other thought would be driven from his mind--

Oh. “Wait, wait, wait.” Clark eased Bruce back and held him there, both of them gasping and in desperate straights “Tell me what John said.”

Bruce stared at him, dazzled--dazed?--as if he couldn’t decipher Clark’s words. A few moments and he blinked, expression turned mulish. “We can talk about it later.”

“I want to talk about it now.”

“It doesn’t change any of this.”

“Then there shouldn’t be any problem with telling me.” He took a closer look at Bruce, eyes still hot with desire, lips swollen from their kisses, and felt sorely tempted to leave it be for now and resume where they had just left off. Suspicion propelled him onward. “Or is there a problem?”

Bruce sighed, exasperated and resigned at the same time. “There’s no problem. He said we’re fine.” Bruce struggled to get loose, but only for a moment. “Constantine,” he said, by way of a seeming non sequitur.

Clark frowned. “Constantine--what?”

“Our safe word, it could be Constantine.”

Head cocked, Clark thought that over, nodded slowly. “Just--”

“--don’t ever tell him,” Bruce confirmed. “You can let me go. I promise not to pounce.”

“I don’t mind you pouncing.” Clark eased his hold enough for Bruce to slip free. “I would like to know the process by which you have arrived at pouncing.”

“Fine.” Bruce let out a deep breath, ran a hand back through his hair, and rested back against the cushion. For no apparent reason, he picked up the Batman pillow again. “This is ridiculous.”

“Us or the pillow?”

“Both?” Bruce’s lips quirked with a crooked, rueful smile. He took another moment to gather his thoughts and then began to tell him about the meeting with Constantine at the cemetery and discussing the recent macabre murders in Gotham before moving onto more personal matters. That must have been quite the transition in conversation, he thought, and Bruce’s recitation didn’t disappoint. 

Clark suspected a few bits were edited out but there was more than enough for him to form a clear idea of what Morgaine had unleashed on them, what she had intended to unleash. He zeroed in on the most important detail. “You could have died?” 

“So I’m told.”

Clark reached out to touch him, reassure himself Bruce was there, alive. His first instinct, only instinct, when he had seen the noxious smoke pouring into the Cave had been to save Bruce. He’d never have dreamed so much could unfold from that. “I’m glad I was there.”

Bruce pulled another face but there was no grudging note in his reply. “So am I.” A pause, then, “But that doesn’t give you carte blanche to charge to the rescue without thinking first.”

“No, of course not,” Clark said. They both knew he wouldn’t change, anymore than Bruce would. That was as it should be, too.

“ _ You’re _  fine with it all, then?” Bruce asked. He searched Clark’s eyes again. “Fate, destiny, some fairy godmother somewhere going bibbidi-bobbidi-boo?”

“Okay,” Clark grinned, “it has all been worth it to hear you say bibbidi-bobbidi-boo.”

“Five kids,” Bruce held up a hand to emphasize this number, “five. You have no idea how many times I’ve had to sit through  _ Cinderella _ , animated  _ and  _ live action.”

“I’m sure it was pure torture.” Clark scooted closer and pressed his lips to Bruce’s forehead to try and soothe the pain. “And yes, I am fine with fate, destiny, fairy godmothers, whatever it took to get us here. I never doubted we were meant to be.”

Bruce pulled back to look at him, as if he needed to verify Clark was serious. “You really mean that.”

“I do. Someday you won’t doubt it even for a split second.”

If Bruce didn’t look convinced of that, he didn’t rush to declare that an impossibility, either. Progress of a sort, then.

“I suppose,” he strove for a lofty air of detachment even as he drew an index finger along Bruce’s bottom lip, “we could pick up where we left off.” Bruce’s evil smile almost warned him. He was ready for Bruce to catch his fingertip with his teeth, to bite. He hadn’t been prepared for Bruce to flick his tongue against the pad, to suck  _ and _  bite. Breath caught in his throat, Clark felt the sensation shoot straight to his groin. “Damn. How do you know about erogenous zones I don’t know about? Do you have a manual?”

“No, but I may write one when I’m done with you.”

It was a  frivolous remark that drew them both up for a long moment, gazes locked.

“And when will that be?” Clark asked.

“Never,” Bruce whispered, surprising himself and looking stunned by the realization. “I never want to be done with you, Clark.” He pulled Clark down to him, to demonstrate his sincerity. “But maybe we could take this to the bedroom?”

“That sounds like a brilliant idea.”

Bruce grimaced, a wry twist to his smile. “I get lucky sometimes.”

Clark kissed the corner of his mouth. “We both have, Bruce. We both have.”

~*~

There was a moment the next morning, when Bruce woke up and found the other side of the bed empty, that a tiny spark of fear flared up. Had Clark decided to give him a dose of his own medicine, show him how it felt to wake up alone after an incredible night?

But no, as quickly as the thought occurred to him, it vanished the same way. Clark wasn’t made like that. Just one of the thousand miracles about him.

Content to bask for a bit, to do what he had denied himself previously, Bruce stretched out against the soft sheets. This bed was no ornate extravagance but it was comfortable; it was warm and bathed in the sunlight that streamed through the casement windows set in the exposed brick wall. 

The bed’s only flaw was that he occupied it by himself, and as the seconds ticked by a fresh concern did start to grow. Not that Clark had deliberately abandoned him, but that some emergency had come up, the proverbial job for Superman. 

Was he in danger? Did he need help? Bruce had sat up and thrown back the covers, calculating how long it would take him to get through morning traffic to his penthouse and the spare suit he kept there, when he heard footsteps and watched the bedroom door open.

Clark stood there, in jeans and ubiquitous plaid shirt--how many of them did he own anyway?--a smile like sunshine on his face and his arms full of groceries. “You awake yet?”

“Just about. What’s all that?” He indicated the paper bag Clark held.

“Breakfast. Interested?”

“You’re fixing it?”

“You could make the toast.” Clark gave him a hopeful look.

“You can think that if it makes you happy.”

“Hmm. Guess there will have to be another book on how to domesticate a bat.” Clark’s smile was entirely too warm and welcoming, tempting Bruce to drag him back to bed to indulge in further carnal delights. That his stomach chose that exact time to rumble with hunger did splash some cold water on that scenario.

“If there’s real coffee, I could make that,” he offered. He stood up and stretched and tried not to preen under Clark’s admiring regard, the way Clark tracked the borrowed sweats as they slipped down Bruce’s hips. He hiked them up and tightened the drawstring.

Clark rummaged in the grocery bag and produced a package: Folgers Gourmet Selections, Morning Cafe ground coffee. “The best part of waking up.” From the goofy grin on his face, Clark had been waiting all morning to say that.

“Hhn.” Bruce could take issue with that. He had a feeling the best part of waking up would be to turn and see Clark stretched out beside him. Something told him things would synchronize that way soon.

In the kitchen, as Clark bustled around putting away groceries and getting out pans, directing Bruce to the coffee maker, there was a strong sense of domesticity in the air. Bruce thought he should have wanted to rebel against that, to bolt. He was almost alarmed at how natural this all felt.

“We’re going to do this,” he said.

“Make breakfast?” Clark looked up from where he was cracking eggs into a frying pans.

“Breakfast--all of it.” He opened the package of coffee, inhaled deeply. A horrible thought popped into his head. “They’re going to give us a name, one of those stupid portmanteau things--Blark or Cruce or, or,” he wracked his brain for more examples, “or Went? Kayne?”

Clark looked like he couldn’t decide whether or laugh or throw an egg at him. “Cruce Kayne has sort of ring to it.”

“It does not have a ring to it.”

“Fix your coffee. You’re a nut without it.”

So this was what it felt like, happily ever after. It wasn’t some big extravaganza but it wasn’t small and old-hat, either. It was fixing breakfast together--Clark dropping an egg on the floor, him taking a run at the toast after all and setting off the fire alarm. It was not making small talk but not having to discuss anything weightier than a  _ Daily Planet _  crossword puzzle, “What’s a twelve-letter word, starts with F, that means ‘fringe element?’”

“Flummadiddle.”

Bruce lowered the paper and looked at Clark over the top. “That is not a word.”

Clark picked up his phone, fiddled with it, and read, “Flummadiddle means ‘something foolish or worthless.’ It first appeared in the early nineteenth century, where it referred to a frill or fringe on a dress; by the eighteen-forties, it was appearing as a synonym for fiddle-faddle, folderol, or flapdoodle. Merriam-Webster.”

“Let me see that.” Bruce took the phone, looked for himself. “I’ll be damned.” He filled in the spaces of the clue. “It fits.”

“Flapdoodle should make a comeback.”

“Work it into your piece on Arthur Isaacs.” Bruce glanced up again to find Clark beaming at him. He ducked back behind the paper to hide his own smile.

“So you can stay for awhile?” Clark asked, making it sound casual.

Bruce matched him. “Things could be arranged.”

There must be a fairy godmother somewhere feeling smug and satisfied with herself right about now. Bruce didn’t begrudge her. She’d earned it.

 

the end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :ahem: Yes, so, it's a long and boneheaded story but the gist is I thought I had posted this final chapter right along with the preceding Chapter Four, but apparently buttons that should have been clicked were not and this chapter has been sitting in drafts for the past two weeks. 
> 
> Anyway, it's here now, in its entirety.
> 
> There may or may not be a sequel sometime to resolve the case of the Ouija Board Killer. 
> 
> Now, fingers crossed this posts correctly now...


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